


I'm Okay, You're Okay (He's Kind Of Weird)--Original Flavor

by funnymagic_aing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Aromantic Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock, Bullying, Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, John is not simple minded, M/M, POV John Watson, Physical Abuse, Pining, Revenge, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Kink Meme, Suicidal Thoughts, Teenagers, Twue Wuv, Verbal Abuse, WIP, bomb attack, childhood sweethearts to adult husbands to where the fuck have you gone Jim, competent John, explosions as plot points, first draft, johniarty, lots of death, mutual obsessive behavior, mutual possessive behavior, no actual suicide, none of the abuse is between Jim/John, show your love with murder!, suicidal planning, the bit of non-con is off-screen and between Jim and a Professor, the underage tag pertains to the sex stuff that Jim/John do together as teenagers, wtf Jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 27
Words: 70,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7258990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnymagic_aing/pseuds/funnymagic_aing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt:<br/>It was always Jim and John, John and Jim.</p><p>Even when Jim was moved ahead grades, or when John's father hit him, or when they came out to their families. </p><p>When Carl Powers was killed for calling John a faggot, or when Jim killed John's father for hitting him too hard- it was always the two of them. </p><p>And then they went to university. Jim got all the scholarships- he was a genius, of course he did. John had no choice but to enlist. The army paid for his education. It was the only way. And it was still Jim and John. Jim was the genius, John the simple minded, adoring boyfriend, who didn't mind the Semtex lying around, or the toxins on the stove. And then he went to war.</p><p>When he came back, Jim was gone. Left behind the boring army doctor.</p><p>Sherlock did not faze him-Jim was better at the deducing, and heads can't compare to explosives.</p><p>Happy-ish Jim/John ending please</p><p>---</p><p>This is the first draft version of this story, as first posted to the Sherlock LJ kink meme. I'm just kind of slapping it on here so it can be read more easily. Once completed, it will be revised and reposted as a new story, but this will remain up even after I have done so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hey, I just met you, and I'm pretty crazy, but here's my number, so lets spend the rest of our lives together okay

**Author's Note:**

> This was started freaking years ago on the Sherlock kink meme here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120561247#t120561247
> 
> This is the first draft version, meaning I've copied and pasted directly from what I already wrote on the meme. The changes I want to make, primarily those that I want to make in regards to pre-Jim leaving John, will be put in the revised version once I've redone this whole thing, since I want to just finish this first and then revise all in one go. In the meantime, while the post-Jim leaving John section of the story may incorporate some of those changes, I'll just be putting author's notes in to explain what they are so the reader doesn't get confused. 
> 
> Many thanks to the original prompter for such a fantastically inspiring prompt and to those who have commented over the years. As always I'm incredibly sorry this has taken so long and I'm continuously touched by how kind and patient you have all been. It would not have been possible without your support. I'd also like to thank heshineslikeglass for letting me talk their ear off for years about all of this and being an excellent sounding board who helped me think things through, this story wouldn't be half a good without all that assistance.
> 
> Title comes from a self-help book written by comic book character Harley Quinn.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** This story carries the theme of childhood abuse (John's parents) and school bullying and there are long term effects from both these things. I've also gone ahead and used the Rape/Non-Con tag, as there is one chapter that contains an off-screen incident between Jim and one of his professors. Also, Jim's mother suffers from her psychiatric care being mishandled. **MORE WARNINGS AND TAGS WILL BE ADDED AS THE STORY PROGRESSES.**
> 
> And finally, this is my first attempt at posting on AO3, so I preemptively apologize for the inevitable technical errors.

John meets Jim in biology class when they're assigned as lab partners to disect a frog. It's early in the year, only a month in but John's pretty sure he's never seen this kid before. He looks way too young to be here, and when he says he's thirteen to John's fifteen and that he's a fresh transfer student, it explains a lot.  
"I don't know why they stuck me here," Jim complains. "I should be in the higher levels, not here doing... _this_."  
  
As the class progresses, John agrees, lets Jim take the lead. Jim knows exactly what he's doing, gives John orders more than anything else--"Put the pin here-yes. There, hold that. Right there-no, _there_. Exactly like that. Good."  
  
They finish long before anyone else does, swinging their legs in the awkward silence that descends now that they're not working. Jim sighs, mutters and hums, drums his fingers on the table, pokes the frog with his pencil, twitches. He seems entirely unable to sit still or abide the silence.  
  
"You're not as useless as the rest of these nitwits," Jim offers.  
  
It should be offensive, the backhanded compliment, but instead John just laughs. "Thanks, I think. I've never heard _that_ before."  
  
Jim's eyes flick over him, scanning. "That's true. You shouldn't listen to your dad though. He's an even bigger idiot than your sister. Just because they're older doesn't mean they know anything."  
  
John is to taken aback to form any denials. "You--my--how did you even know I have a sister? Or about my dad?"  
  
And it feels--not wrong, but just plain _weird_ to acknowledge, in even a slight way, what his sister, what his father--what his family is like at home. No one knows. John goes to school, eats lunch with his friends, sits with them in class and plays with them in P.E. and all the while never quite connects properly. There's always a barrier, most literally formed by the way none of them can ever come over to his house and how he never talks about what goes on there. It's a forbidden place and his friends don't get it, think the way he isolates himself is a form of snobbery.  
  
Jim looks surprised at John's lack of anger. "You want to know?"

"Well...yeah." John shrugs. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"

  
Jim blinks then draws himself up straight in his chair and turns to fully face John, his small thirteen year old body suddenly seeming more solid somehow, like he's older and wiser. Definitely belonging to a level above John.  
  
"Your backpack is a hand-me down. There are discolored patches where you removed stickers, most of them in the shape of flowers. There's even a few stars left on the side, though you've colored them over with black marker to try and make them more suited to you. You could have put them there yourself during a phase at a younger age but given your personality type that's unlikely. You're not a flowers and shiny stars bloke. So, given the age of the backpack and it's general appearance, it was given to you by an older sibling who _was_ that type of person, most likely a girl. So you have an older sister. Yes?"  
  
John stares. "Well, yes..."  
  
Jim smirks at him. "Plus I saw you in the hall with an older girl who looked related to you." He giggles. "I guess you could say that was a little bit of a cheat.  
"But I saw her." Jim puts up a finger. "She walked upright, head up and straight ahead, almost aggressively. You on the other hand, slouch when you walk, have a tendancy to look at the ground and not at people. When the teacher talked to you earleir and told you to sit with me, it seemed like you thought you were going to get a scolding of some kind. You're far too agreeable and ready to accept other people as better than you. You know what else I saw?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You had to pull up your sleeves to keep them out of the way of the gloves and when you were holding back frogs skin flap I saw a bruise."  
  
Now John starts to bristle but it's more with embarrassment than anything else. His shoulders go up, his chest tightens. "That's--that's just--"  
  
"Shut up," the thirteen year old orders. John clamps his mouth shut and thinks _too agreeable indeed_.  
  
"It's true, you're very healthy, very active with the whole," Jim's hands twirl in the air, "that whole sports thing. Most people would assume you got it that way. But that's impossible: The size is of a large man's hand that was holding you down. I got beaten up often enough at my old school, I know what that looks like."  
  
"Why'd they beat you up?" John interupts, perturbed.  
  
"Because I'm smarter than them of course. People don't like it when you're younger and beat their grades, or when you know things about them, even when those things are horrrrrribly obvious. Like what I'm saying about you, and how your father held you down to hit you. Probably in the chest, from how you're holding yourself. And the way I know your sister didn't try to stop it and that she's horrible. She's older, she should be trying to protect you. Instead she just stood back and let it happen." Jim leans closer and whispers, "Maybe even agreed with it."

John can't breath. He jerks away from the boy's steady stare and instead his gaze falls on the frog. He feels just as dissected as it looks. John can feel those big dark eyes drilling into him, feels like they're reading his soul. It's practically a religous experience; John is torn between being more impressed than he's ever been in his entire life and utter horror that someone knows. And something else, something far, far from horror that's so fucking happy that someone finally _knows_ \--  
  
"I also know you're better than them. The bruise means you tried to fight even though you had no hope of ever winning. You fight every time, you never stop. And the way how right now I know you're not going to do like those other boys and beat me up for what I'm saying. Which is, I have to admit, the one surprising thing about you, I expected you to lash out and shut me up. I thought because I'm younger you'd try to scare me into cowering when I first said that your father was an idiot. Because of the whole _ooooooh sports_ thing. But clearly that was..." John can _hear_ Jim frowning at his own mistake. "Oh well."  
  
There's a new silence, with John still trying to absorb it all and Jim still staring at him. There's someone who knows and thinks John is better? (And hell, that's not even considering that the _way_ he knows is the most astounding thing John's ever encountered, how John didn't have to say a single word--because he can't, he just can't say anything about it outloud it was like he'd gone mute the few times he tried--and someone finally _noticed_.) There's someone who knows and thinks John is better! Who thinks his stupid fucking wreck of a father---  
  
"Hey. Hey." Jim pokes him repeatedly in the shoulder with a pencil. " _Hey._ Heeeeeeeeeeeey. What, did I break you or something?"  
  
John snaps back to look at him and the first thing that comes blurting out of his mouth is "If anyone here _ever_ tries to beat you up, you just let me know."  
  
Now it's Jim who leans back, those big dark eyes blinking in confusion before he breaks into a brilliant smile. It's radiant, beautiful; Jim lights up from the inside out and John leans closer, drawn to it.  
  
"No one's ever--" Jim puts a hand on John's arm, right where he was poking and strokes over and over, "Thank you. That's--thank you."  
  
The spot where they're touching feels hot, like Jim's inner fire is burning straight through John's sleeve and he says "Any time," and means it.


	2. The Lighthouse Technique: Shine your light and let him come to you.

From then on John can't stay away from Jim. It turns out they have a number of classes together and every chance he gets, John gets as close to Jim as possible. Jim responds in kind, passing notes and whispers about the teachers and the subject matter and Jim is so far ahead on practically every lesson that John can't figure out what the hell Jim is doing in this grade let alone this school or hell; what Jim is even doing on this _planet_. It blows John away and he loves it.  
  
He tries bringing Jim to lunch with him and his friends.  
  
It doesn't really work.  
  
They're confused; at first they try to tolerate this strange boy who is barely a teenager, think maybe he can be their tiny mascot or something. The conversation that normally flows back and forth and around is suddenly stilted and strained, everyone hyper aware of the young newcomer and Jim doesn't exactly make it easy. He stays strange and apparently, slightly off-putting. No one can figure out why on earth John's brought him along.  
  
(Jeana even asks him in private, straight out, the way she tends to do: "No, John, seriously, that Jim kid: What the fuck mate." John can't give an adequate response. He can't find the words to explain Jim, to explain his fascination and draw towards the boy. He winds up saying something about moths and flames and Jeana looks at him like he's lost his damn mind.)  
  
It blows up on the third occasion, when Jim casually exposes in lenghty detail the fact that Laura is cheating on Benjy with Tyler. Laura looks hunted and Benjy gets big, gets confrontational, gets loud and trys to get in Jim's face.  
  
He roars. "Listen you fucking pipsqweak who the fuck do you think you are? You lying little--"  
  
And John is between Jim and Benjy; Jim small enough to be totally hidden behind him.  
  
"Benjy," he says calmly, "Benjy mate, just--"  
  
But Benjy doesn't want to calm down and Jim winds up having to make a speedy tactical retreat while John plays interfearance.  
  
"John, I am telling you," Tyler says later--and it had to be later and alone, because Tyler isn't dumb enough to be anywhere near Benjy right now (Jim hadn't been the only one to run for it)--"I am telling you this as a friend, okay? You like him for whatever reason and that's--whatever, but if that little creep comes 'round again he's likely to get his face broken."  
  
So that means the end of the shared lunches.  
  
Which means that John has to choose between eating with his friends and eating with Jim.  
  
He tries to split it up: Three days a week he eats with Jim, and the other two days with his regular friends. Again, it doesn't really work. There's a chasm between him and them now in addition to the walls he already had. Now conversation is strained because of _him_ and he's left out of the flow more and more. The divide follows them around outside of lunch too; John's still playing with them in P.E. and walking with them in the halls and sitting with them in the few classes he doesn't share with Jim but it's more than a little awkward. It's like his association with Jim has made clear how much he isn't like them. He can't help but feel like in the back of their mind--or the front in some cases--everyone is wondering: _What are you doing here and why are you_ still _here?_  
  
It's so much more comfortable with Jim who drags John to the library each time where they find a table in a corner and sneak their food behind the stacks of books that Jim devours. Some history, more science, even a few about art. The majority of them are about math.  
  
"I like it," Jim says defensivly, like John has sneered at his choices. John didn't. He just pointed it out and asked about it, that's all. "Math is like--it just makes _sense_. All the equations and angles." His hands go up, moving like they're picking geometric shapes out of the air. "Everything is set in stone yet there are all these infinite possibilites and combinations. It's in everything, _evvvvvverything_ that we do, it's even a language; it's like you could do _anything_ with it. And my mum--" here Jim stops suddenly. John perks up; Jim, like John, doesn't really talk about his home life. John assumes a lot from that. But if Jim is going to open up about it, that can only be a good thing. He knows how uplifting it felt to have the facts of his own family confided in someone else.  
  
"Your mum?" John prompts.  
  
Jim toys with the wilted lettuce sticking out of his sandwich then suddenly smashes his fist down, squishing it.  
  
"It's not important," Jim says harshly, more harshly than anything John has heard from him so far. He hits the sandwich again. A bit of something that looks like mayonnaise squeezes out. Jim doesn't say anything else and there's a quiet moment where neither of them do anything but stare at the pathetically flattened sandwich.  
  
John finally says "Think you could get me to like algebra?" and that seems to do the trick.

The tone is set for the rest of the year: His outside relationships slowly disintegrate as John orbits Jim closer and closer and he can't even care. He can talk to Jim, relate in a way he never could with them and Jim's so damn smart there are plenty of times when John doesn't even have to talk, Jim just knows. He's smart and funny and in every single way the most interesting person in the whole school. And yeah, there are times when John feels stupid just from standing next to him but Jim never belittles him--other people, hell yes, with other people it's open season and Jim's got a lazer rifle, but not John. On the contrary, he compliments John, little but important things that are all true.

John loves all of it in a way he can't describe.

Home continues to be home but it's different now; the way that when John's back is against the wall, struggling in his father's grip with his nose bleeding but not broken, the way that when that man is filling John's ears with words about how John is a great useless stupid lump of nothing, John feels untouchable. All he can think of is Jim and his words for John and thinks no, no sir you're the one that's nothing. Being six-foot two and stronger than me doesn't prove anything. 

The way how when he sees Harry sitting on the sofa staring at them blankly--though he swears he sees disdain on her face every now and then, like she doesn't understand why John isn't manning up and winning already dammit--he can block her out. Forget her. It's her last year living here anyway, she's graduating in a few months and will be moving on to university dorm life. Good for her, goodbye.

He can even ignore his mother when she comes home late at night from work and spots blood on his shirt and says "Will you at least try to do something about that?" and acts like she doesn't know what happened. Having evidence right in front of you makes willful ignorance harder, he figures. His parents yell and fight and degrade each other but his father's never raised a hand to her. He's a decent man: Won't hit a woman.

He focuses on the silver lining: At school, Jim gets so angry on his behalf, a slim little ball of rage.

"Someone should just kill that fucker," he seethes. "Hell just kill all of them, just--" he makes a series of noises and twists his hands around in the air violently.

"Yeah, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail. The way it stands," John says, "they only get to have a few more years of my life before I can get out. Then I never, ever, have to see them again. If I killed even just my dad it would mean him getting the whole rest of my life."

"Not if you didn't get caught."

"Oh yeah? You got some perfect plan?" John doesn't. His plans are all pretty violently obvious, they involve things like gutting his father with the kitchen knife or squeezing the life out of his throat while the larger man stares at him, eyes bulging with paralyzed fear. Not exactly things he could get away with.

"I'll get back to you," Jim says seriously. "This would be so much easier if he were a drinker."

That's true. It would also be easier to explain his father's behavior if it came from a bottle. But John's father doesn't touch the stuff. No drinking, no drugs, not even any smoking. (Again: His father is such a decent man.) 

No, as far as John can tell, his father is just plain fucking crazy.

(He tried to tell a teacher once, in secondary school. He'd liked her a lot and she had a soft spot for him. He'd managed to choke out the words "My dad is crazy," and she'd given a little laugh, reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "It's okay John," she said, "all kids think their parents are crazy," and winked. That had been the end of that.)

"You work on that, I'm going to finish my English paper. I'm almost done."

Another side benefit of being friends with Jim: John's grades, while they hadn't ever exactly been poor, have shown a marked improvment. This will prove quite helpful during his university search, John knows.

"Oooooooh I'm going to work on it all right," Jim says, body still tight with anger. "I'm going to work it into the bloody ground just you see."

John can't wait to hear what he comes up with. They won't be able to actually do it, obviously, but it'll be fun to imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small note: Where it says Seconday School it should actually say "Year 8" or of the like. Again, these chapters are not beta-edited or Britpicked. (When it comes time for revision, a Britpicker would probably be appreciated, if anyone wants to volunteer in the future, but just not right now.)


	3. I'm very well acquainted too with matters mathematical, I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical

Weeks go by and John forgets about that particular little conversation. Instead his attention is taken up by Jim's overflowing frustration with his classes. The entire student body is aware of it at one point. They're well past the halfway mark in the school year when one day in math class Jim is vibrating in his seat until he vibrates right out of it, standing up in his chair reciting the answers for the teacher then waving his arms like he's directing a plane to land, shouting "We know already! We know already! Can we move _on_ , can we _go_ , can we do something more _interesting_ ; this is something _beautiful_ and your making it so drab and dull and blaaaaaaaaaaargh--"  
  
And the teacher is at his desk in a flash going " _Mr._ Doyle sit down--!"  
  
Jim's response is to move to stand on the desk itself, ignoring the way it wobbles. John looks around; people are starting to giggle out loud, unable to hide it and the teacher's face is flushing hotly. "Mr.Doyle you will get down from there _right now_."  
  
"I'll get down when this class climbs out of the primordial ooze!"  
  
The teacher snarls and stomps away, jabbing at the button on the wall that will connect her to the office. Over the peals of laughter, she calls for school security.  
  
John's not really sure that this is funny. Jim's anger is real, his complaint is real and all anyone can see is a troublemaker doing something silly for attention.  
  
Jim stays right where he is, arms crossed over his chest, wobbly desk and all, even when the school councilor and security come marching into the room. They instruct him down.  
  
Jim invites them to bite him in the face.  
  
After that they go ahead and grab him, the security guard having to get up on the chair at one point, wrestling him off the damn desk while Jim squirms. John doesn't like it, hates every second that they spend laying hands on him but he can't think of anything to do. Jim's left them no other options and John stays helplessly glued to his seat as they half drag Jim and his belongings out of the room to head for the front office. Even from halfway down the hall they can all hear a loud shout of "I don't belong here!"  
  
To his left and one desk ahead, Jeana is practically crying with mirth.  
  
"Oh god," she gasps, "oh my god that complete nutter."  
  
She's overcome with giggles again and before John knows it he's leaning forward towards her in his seat saying firmly, "He's not a nutter."  
  
This shocks her enough that she actually stops laughing for a minute and turns almost all the way around in her chair to stare at him, along with those around them that have also caught John's little declaration.  
  
" _What_?" She waves an animated hand, motioning for him to be quiet. "No, no, just--what? John. You saw that. You had to. You've been sitting right there."  
  
"Yeah. I saw. And it doesn't mean he's a nutter." His voice stays steady but he can feel his face flushing from the combined stares. Jeana is incredulous.  
  
"Not--? John. You. Okay. You know what, John? You're a damn blind man. Nevermind."  
  
She faces forward and stays serious for a few moments until she spots the girl next to her doing an imitation of Jim's air traffic moves after which she promptly loses it again. John gives up.  
  
It's true what he said, he thinks. Jim just operates on different levels and wave lengths than everybody else. It doesn't mean he's out of his mind. He's just different, that's all. And it must be horrible for him, stuck plodding along in these classes while the teachers simplify and simplify and review and review what are already the most basic concepts to him. It's no wonder he stood up and shouted about it. He just hopes Jim doesn't get into too much trouble for it. He doesn't think they'd expel Jim for it, not really, but he's uncertain enough to be nervous. All the staff involved seemed rather humiliated by the whole situation and humiliated people like to make examples of others. 

When the last bells rings John hurries to the front of the school so he can loiter around the office, hoping to catch Jim. Within a minute or two of him getting there he spots Jim coming down the hall from what John presumes is the principal's office. He's got his hands in his pockets and a slight spring in his step.  
  
"Hey," John greets him when he gets close enough. "What happened? How did it go?"  
  
Jim jerks his head towards the entrance. "C'mon. Tell you outside."  
  
Once they've gone far enough that they're not hanging about right in front of the double doors, John asks again. "Well? What happened?"  
  
"Weeeeeeeell," Jim says, drawing it out with a little head bob and looking quite pleased with himself, "it went better than expected. I've got detention for something like two and a half weeks but the important part is that they've agreed to bump me up next year. There was something about how they had to wait, couldn't do it immediately because it was too late in the year or some nonsense like that."  
  
"That's fantastic!"  
  
Jim makes a happy humming noise and says "Yup," popping the p. "I don't even care that I'm going to be scraping gum or washing the board or whatever it is they have you do in detention. Maybe it'll be lines. 'I will not stand on my desk. I will not stand on my desk. I will not stand on my desk.'"  
  
They laugh, and it's not until much later when John is at home going to bed that he realizes that Jim moving ahead means they won't share classes anymore. There will still be lunch time and after school, but still. He _likes_ having Jim's presence near him even if they don't exactly get to communicate much and he feels an uncomfortable pang at not being able to look over and see Jim roll his eyes exaggeratedly at something the teacher's said. Which is silly, he tells himself. Very silly indeed. 

 

The next day the first person he encounters in the hall is Laura. He calls out to her and she turns to face him.  
  
"Oh! Um. John. Hi. Um. How are you?" she fiddles with her glasses, pushing them up nervously. John feels frozen by how clearly she wants to be doing anything but socializing with him.  
  
"Fine," he says slowly, "How are you?" It's worse than talking to a stranger.  
  
"I'm good!" she says far too brightly, pushing at her glasses again, "I'm good, it's just, I have to, um, go and..." she scrambles.  
  
"Do a thing?" John supplies for her.  
  
"Yes!" She grabs at it like a lifeline and starts slinking away. "Yes, I have to go do that thing I have to do, early, you know, um..."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Yeah. Um. Well. Bye!" Laura disappears down the hallway, possibly never to be seen by him again. At least not alone, apparently, though if Laura's like that then they probably all are, in some way or another. Despite the distance that had been growing between all of them he can't help but feel more hurt than he thinks he should. He knew subconsciously that this was coming, after all. He just doesn't know what tipped the balance over.  
  
On the bright side, he supposes he won't be trying to alternate his days for lunch anymore.  
  
He finally finds Jim and a real grin stretches his face. "Jim! Hey."  
  
The expression Jim makes in return would probably fool anyone else but John's seen too many of Jim's actual smiles for him to mistake this as anywhere near genuine. Jim manages a pretty weak greeting back and it's all wrong. Jim was _bouncing_ when they parted way yesterday, now he looks like he wants to melt away to nothingness.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Wrong? Nothing, nothings wrong. Or a lot of things are "wrong" if you really think about it, world hunger, war, poverty, little kids being scared by clowns--that happened to me you know, scarred me for life, it's the root of all my nightmares."  
  
John just looks at him. Jim shifts uneasily.  
  
It turns out Jim doesn't have to say anything at all. While they're standing there, waiting for Jim to 'fess up, a trio of older boys pauses while passing them.  
  
"Oh hey! Doyle!" John looks and has just long enough to notice that he doesn't know any of their names before they're going "BLAAAAAAAAAAAAARG" and shaking their hands exaggeratedly on either side of their faces. As they move on one of them tosses back a mournful "It's something _beautiful_!" and they're laughing like it's the best joke in the world as they walk away. A titter passes through the stationary people around them.

Well. That explains things pretty perfectly. Explains why his friends no longer want him around, too. Apparently when Jim stood on his desk a line got drawn in the sand: The general populace on one side, Jim and John on the other. They don't want to go down with the ship.

  
"It'll blow over," John tells him. It's technically true; it'll blow over but considering how the whole school is apparently in on the 'joke', that may take oh, say, a _month_. But it _will_ blow over, and that's the part to focus on.  
  
"I don't care," Jim says stubbornly and it's a lie if John ever heard one.  
  
Jim gets heavier and heavier throughout the day no matter how he tries to hide it--he takes to giving two finger salutes and exaggerated mock bows to try and demonstrate just how much he doesn't care, tries to keep his nose just a bit in the air. Naturally, it's failing horribly.  
  
It takes John until the end of the day to come up with a way to try and combat the problem but when he does, he feels quite proud of himself.  
  
They're in the hall again and this time it's a lone underclassman, again one John doesn't know, and when the kid does his shtick John twists his face into as contorted an expression he can manage and makes a noise not unlike a zombie choking on flesh. The underclassman is so surprised that he steps back and just kind of...wanders away, confusedly.  
  
It happens two more times as they're leaving and it's got to be the dumbest looking thing John's ever done but that doesn't even matter because Jim is stepping lighter, is smiling to break his face and can't stop the giggles and snorts he's making and John knows he'll do this for the rest of the month if he has to.  
  
"Oh god," Jim huffs, laughing, "their _faces_."  
  
Yes, John feels quite proud of himself.


	4. I AM BOXXY YOU SEE! Mmm!

After exams comes summer.  
  
Considering that Jim and John spend all of their time together at school, never _after_ after school or even on the phone (phone aren't safe, are too easily listened in on, cause too many questions) the idea of summer looms as a threat. Normally John spends as much time at other friend's houses as he possibly can--mum isn't strict about that with him unlike Harry, he's a boy so it's okay--but the only friend he wants to visit (or to be frank, really seriously has anymore) is Jim and Jim's always been so tight lipped about his home life...  
  
"The library?" John suggests, but there isn't one close enough to meet at. The idea of an entire summer apart looms and they both stare at floor in dejection for a while.  
  
"I guess..." Jim trails off, clears his throat, coughs. "I guess it would be okay. If you came over to mine."  
  
John looks up at him. Jim doesn't meet his gaze. "Just so you know, my mom would have to meet your folks first. Maybe even twice."  
  
The other boy shrugs unenthusiasticly and mutters, "That won't be a problem."  
  
"If you're sure."  
  
"I want to see you," Jim says. "I'm sure about that."  
  
John can tell there's more to it than that but he wants to see Jim too, so he doesn't say anything.  
  
Then suddenly exams aren't coming, they're happening and for once John doesn't really panic. He feels an odd calm instead, steadied by the idea that he's more ready than he's ever been.  
  
He thinks he does okay. More than okay, perhaps.  
  
And then it's over and Jim's clearly so nervous; not about how he did on the exams they just took but about their parents meeting and John has to ask again if this is all going to be okay. He doesn't want to put Jim in a bad situation.  
  
"It'll be _fine_ ," Jim insists. Despite the way he won't meet John's eyes John is too selfish to ask a third time.  
  
When John asks to his mother about it he's sure to talk up Jim's qualities: That's he's a genius, the way he's helped John study. He even throws in the lie that Jim is well mannered and polite. (He knows Jim can fake being soft spoken long enough to impress his mother.) All around, a good decent boy.  
  
Which Jim is, in John's opinion. Certainly more decent than all of John's family put together, that's for sure.  
  
Thankfully, she goes for it. Though it's possible her not wanting he and Harry to be alone in the house together unsupervised is also a contributing factor.  
  
When the day finally comes--a saturday so that his mother can drive him, at least this first time--John does all he can to hide his nerves on the ride there. He doesn't know what he'll do if she decides he's not to see Jim. He suspects that there won't actually be much of him doing anything and more of him just moping and aching and missing his best friend a lot.  
Jim's mother opens the door after they knock two separate times and John's breathe catches for a second because while they don't look anything alike in the face, those eyes are unmistakable and it had never occurred to John that perhaps there was more than one set of them out there in the world. Unmistakable but wrong in a subtle way; they're somehow dull where Jim has shine.

"Oh, hello. You must be the Watsons." Her tone is polite, impeccable but there's more than a few seconds of delay between the moment she sets eyes on them, the moment she sorts out who they must be and finally the moment the words come out of her mouth. She steps back from the doorway. "Please, come in."  
  
John looks around, trying to be covert about it. It's a nice house. A little small, a bit unkept and obviously old, but nice. In the living room, the tv is playing with the sound off. Jim is standing next to the couch. He moves forward and holds out his hand. John's mother takes it.  
  
"Hello, Mrs. Watson. I'm Jim. It's a pleasure to meet you."  
  
And yep, Jim is using his "put the librarian at ease" voice. Perfect. If Mrs. Doyle finds anything odd about this she gives no sign, just smiles benignly at them all. It doesn't sit right with John, there's nothing wrong with it and yet there is. Just a general air of not-quite-right that clings to the woman.  
  
Is there something wrong? Is that was Jim was so worried about?  
  
"Why thank you Jim, the same to you. I've heard such good things about you."  
  
Jim looks bashful, says "Oh. _Well._ "  
  
John literally bites his own tongue to keep a straight face.  
Looking between the two women, Jim says in a tone of careful suggestion, "I believe you and my mother wanted to talk...?"  
  
"Oh, yes of course. Why don't you two go run along and play," Mrs. Watson says, all big smiles, "and us two will get acquainted out here."  
  
John jumps in. "Where's you're room?" It's a near useless question, as the house clearly only has so many doors, but it'll get them alone and that's all he cares about right now. He hopes his mother doesn't freak Mrs.Doyle out; it's happened before. For this to work they _both_ have to like each other.  
  
As expected, Jim's bedroom is only a few yards away and John enters first, Jim closing the door behind them.  
  
"Sorry about her," Jim says in his normal voice, "I hope she wasn't too-- _off_ or weird or whatever." His arms cross over his chest defensively, his chin tucking down slightly.  
  
"No," John assures him, "no it was fine. I don't think my mom noticed anything."  
  
"But you did."  
  
John hesitates. This is clearly a delicate matter and he doesn't want to hurt Jim's feelings. "Is she...sick?" he asks carefully.  
Jim huffs, his body language opening up. "It depends on who you ask and with what."  
  
"You don't have to tell me. It's okay."  
  
"No," Jim says, trying to be firm, "I want to. You're going to be here a lot, hopefully, so you should, you know. _Know_. What the big oogally boogally deal is and all that."  
  
The one chair in the room currently has a pipette set on it so John sits on the bed and waits expectantly.  
  
"My mum used to be smart like me. Brilliant, really brilliant. She was called in to consult with the Space Agency a couple of times; you know how everything is unmanned and they need all the programming, the codes and calculations to be perfect? They wound up not actually _doing_ anything with any of it, mostly because I suspect the programme to be run by chimpanzees that have somehow advanced to human speech, but that's not the important part. So. She was smart. A math professor full time." Jim takes a steadying breath.  
"The problem or as I think of it, the so called 'problem' was her personality. It was...unpredictable. She had heavy, heavy mood swings, to say the least. People claimed it made her almost impossible to work with. Clearly, these people just weren't trying hard enough. I remember what she was like, I remember--" He made a hiss of annoyance. "For instance when I was seven she threw a knife at me because I wouldn't shut up."  
  
John starts, wide-eyed. "She threw a _knife_ \--"

"Relax, she was used to teaching students, not hunting big game in South Africa. It just kinda wobbled around in the air as it went," and here Jim uses his hands to act out the knife's journey, "then clatter-crash! Landed pathetically. It was barely anywhere near me. She stared at it on the floor, put her head back and literally howled in frustration. It was more sad and pointless than anything else."  
  
John does not actually find this in any way reassuring because really, it's the thought that counts, but Jim seems genuinely unbothered by it so he's not going to fuss, especially not in the middle of Jim's story.  
  
"The point is, people 'couldn't handle' her. Enough students filed enough complaints and she got suspended and the short of it is that she wound up having to see a psychiatrist if she wanted to keep her job, so she did, only _ironically_ enough, oh ho ho," Jim gave a dark mock chuckle, "she 'needs' to be so doped up that she's practically going backwards, so instead of teaching students working on their PHDs, she's working with students who are learning to add two plus two. But hey! That's okay, that's _great_ because at least she's nice and normal now!"  
  
Jim's eyes are black with pure rage; his whole body radiates it, literally shakes with it. "I will never, _ever_ let that happen to me," he whispers, voice tight and the mere suggestion that it could frightens John. The idea that all of--of _Jim_ could be taken and locked away tight under the child proof cap of a pill bottle isn't one he ever wants to contemplate. It's too horrible.  
  
"I didn't want you to not want to come over because of her and the whole stupid mess."  
  
John tries to shake off the image of Jim as a dim shell of himself and gives a small smile. "Well she's not the one I'm here to hang out with, is she. Don't worry about it."  
  
The rage disappears, Jim's whole body relaxes and he returns John's smile.  
  
  
  
  
Later, when John's mother drives him home, she's smiling. "What a nice little family they are," she says. "I did rather like that Mrs. Doyle."  
  
John spares the thought that _you'd be 'nice' too if your most important faculties were taken away from you and you were doped out of your mind_ , but mostly he's just internally ecstatically happy.  
  
"So...I can get a bus pass to visit during the week?" he double checks.  
  
"That's right."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Oh of _course_ ," and no, not _of course_ , she must be in a _really_ good mood but John chooses to ignore that for now and focuses on his victory instead.

 


	5. it's okay, no one else knows the password to our pillow fort

John loves being in Jim's room.  
  
There's still just the one chair and Jim tends to occupy it so John sits and lounges and lays on the bed, bare feet dragging against the soft covers. It's a small cluttered space, full of books and papers, an extensive chemistry set and a strangely excessive amount of pillows. John wonders briefly if he uses them to build things, a little pretend fortress of a lab to do his work in. It's messier than the rest of the house but John is utterly unsurprised to hear that Jim knows exactly where everything is. There aren't any posters, just papers taped to the wall featuring hand written notes on math and science and very occasionally, literary quotes that John doesn't recognize. It holds very few pictures, the most notable being a color photograph of a space programme rocket with the word "FAIL" written across it in big black marker.  
  
John's favorite thing are the sheets of paper that have been stuck on the wall facing the bed. On them is the never ending digits of Pi. It has look of a long project done over time, piece by piece, number by number and when John asks about it Jim confirms that, says he's going to eventually have it reach infinity.  
  
John's pretty sure that's not something you can do, that it's impossible, that's why it's _infinity_ , you'll never get to it but hey, if someone ever does manage it John has no doubt that Jim would be that person.  
  
Mrs.Doyle never tries to interact with them and John finds himself selfishly grateful for that, he has no idea how to properly deal with her. She's nothing like other parents John has encountered, letting them do anything from light cooking in the kitchen to being loud to not checking on the loud BANG! noises that occasionally happen behind the room's closed door. (Jim has a particular fondness for things that go BANG! and BOOM! and on one occasion BLAM! and John has a fondness for assisting him to make them happen; it makes the younger boy's features light up in a way that John can't help but smile at.)  
  
On his first solo visit John makes the mistake of asking where Mr.Doyle is and when he's coming home. He realizes his misstep mere seconds after the question leaves his lips and cringes, thinking that if he'd just bothered to _think_ and put together the things he'd observed of the house and the way there has never been even a mention of him, he'd already know that an adult man does not live here. Jim, fortunately, takes it in stride.  
  
"Don't know, don't care, he fucked off somewhere before I was born, disappeared into the ether, may or may not have even been real. I'm actually an immaculate conception." He presses a silencing finger against John's mouth. "Shhh, don't tell. No one would ever believe mum."  
  
John giggles, lips moving against the digit. "That's a good attitude to have."  
  
Jim looks innocent. "What attitude? It's the God-given truth." He puts his hands together over his head in the imitation of a halo and makes a noise like a choir of angels singing. This time they both giggle, effectively closing the subject.  

He stays as long as possible every single visit (and there are many, nearly every day, he is using the hell out of that bus pass) something that they're both happy about. Jim suggests sleepovers but John knows for a fact his parents will never go for it. Instead they content themselves with the time they do have and John loves the way they sometimes don't even talk for hours, just enjoy being in each other's company, Jim focusing on some massive equation and John paging through a book that he doesn't understand but reads anyway, like he's hoping that enough exposure will somehow magically ascend him to higher levels of comprehension. The math books in particular; John wishes he could reach Jim's level on the subject simply because Jim loves it _so much_ , wishes he could understand properly and share that beauty with him. The literature books are much easier, they work the way his brain does and he can rise to their levels.  
  
"It's going to be my birthday," Jim blurts out suddenly one day in late July. "On the 31st. My birthday."  
  
"Oh? Excellent!" The few times John told people about his own it always ended in disaster so he just doesn't anymore, doesn't even celebrate it by himself, but he does like other people's birthdays.  
  
"What are your plans?"  
  
Jim shrugs, uncomfortable. "No plans. I just wanted to tell you. And make sure that you're here that day. I want you to be here, that's not a problem, right?"  
  
"Not a problem at all," John assures him.  
  
When the day comes John is kicking himself, upset that he hasn't been able to draw any kind of present out of his limited resources. He does however dig a candle and a pack of matches out of his sister's room. It's rotund and scented and plain but it'll do the trick.  
  
At Jim's house he lights it then carefully picks it up, holding it out towards the other boy.  
  
"Well?" he says. "Go on. Make a wish."  
  
Jim looks at him in a way he can't decipher--odd, because he's become an expert in Jim Expressions--before squinching his eyes shut and blowing out the flame.  
  
"Happy birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why yes I did give Jim the same birthday as Harry Potter, why do you ask


	6. Just keep talking about that little ball of light touching your heart, and she'll come 'round.

School creeps up on them and then suddenly Harry is gone, out of the house to university and John is in lower Sixth Form with Jim entering the upper.   
  
It turns out John should have been more concerned about the students than his classes.  
  
Apparently this year is different--they're both officially outcasts at this point--weirdoes, creeps--complete with people physically putting distance between them wherever they go. It shouldn't, but it grates on the temper John keeps such a clamped down grip on. Who do they think they are? What makes them so great, so much 'better' than him or Jim?   
  
Some of these people used to like him. Some of them were considered friends or at least friendly. He can't figure out how all this change even works.   
  
Still, aside from tossed off snide comments and looks in passing people mostly leave them alone. John thinks it's because there are two of them combined with the fact that Jim is growing, has been growing, is certainly taller than the end of last year and is showing no signs of stopping. If it were just Jim he's sure people would be cowardly enough to jump him but they keep to themselves and no one cares enough to bother trying to deal with them both at the same time.   
  
(John has tried to prompt his own growth through sheer force of will. It hasn't worked. Despite his father's bulk, John's apparently gotten more of his mother's genes. He's going to be stuck this size forever. He wonders if Jim will get taller than him. Probably. Most boys are, at this point.)  
  
There's another problem he hadn't anticipated: His dreams.  
  
They're messy and disjointed and he's not sure what they mean but they hurt and he rather wishes it would stop. They're not every night but they're frequent all the same. There are different scenarios that never matter, the important part is that Jim is always in them.  
  
Last night he dreamed a swirling, jangled world of things and at the center of it was that for a time he was holding Jim somehow, squeezing tight, skin touching skin. He could _feel_ the light that burned in Jim coming through the contact, knew that they were both safe. Safe and so, so _happy_.  
  
It's all gone when he opens his eyes and the loss of it all, the light and the safety and bloody glow of happiness practically makes the dream a nightmare. It makes his chest hurt, makes his bruises old and new ache. makes him want to disappear from reality and live in his dreams and it's harder to go to school that day: He keeps wanting to _touch_ Jim, to see if he can feel anything through his skin. Wants warmth and happiness and safety.  
  
It _hurts_.

Jim notices, of course he does, asks what the matter is. John can't tell him even though he wants to. Doesn't know how, can't even explain it to himself so he simply says it's bad dreams. Jim waits for more and when nothing further comes he looks at John harder, dark eyes probing and frown deepening.  
  
The urge to touch doesn't go away, even when he hasn't had one of those dreams. It's all the time now and he doesn't understand it so he contents himself with watching Jim more than ever. It's enchanting, the way Jim laughs or smiles, the way he moves his hands when he talks, up and down and around; the focused concentration on his face as they study their school work.   
  
Not quite three months in at the library Jim catches him at it; glances up and to the side, spots the way John is looking at him, does a double take and doesn't look away. _Sees_ John the way only he can. John _does_ look away, snaps his gaze back down to his own paper and motionless pen, the unturned pages of his book. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jim moving, getting right into his personal space.  
  
"John. _John_."   
  
He looks up and Jim is so close, smile and eyes burning so bright. John can't breathe.  
  
Jim says " _Yes_ ," and he is moving forward, closing the few inches between them and giving John his first kiss.  
  
It's short and closed-mouthed but his lips burn and it sends a _rush_ through all of John and he thinks _Oh._  
  
 _That's_ what it all meant.  
  
John wants to kiss him again so he reaches out a uncertain hand, places it on Jim's shoulder to draw him close again and does so. It feels even better than the first so he does it again once, twice more. Jim's the one that reaches forward now, fingers curling around John's upper arm in a steady solid grip and they get bolder, John poking his tongue out against Jim's lips. They open for him and he makes an embarrassing noise against the other boy's mouth and Jim makes a small sound of amusement back. Their work and food sit on the table ignored for the rest of lunch.   
  
Neither of them know what they're doing, inexperienced and young as they are, but that's okay. They'll figure it out.  
  
John is still smiling, floating when he gets home and sits in his room that night. It doesn't occur to him to freak out. Being with Jim makes more sense than not, makes more sense than anything else in his whole life right now. There had been no talk of "So you want to go out with me? Are we dating? Is it boyfriend time?" There had been no need for it. They understood each other and simply _were_.   
  
That night he dreams again and when he wakes part of the glow stays, at home in his chest steady and pulsing.  
  



	7. hi I'm here to ruin everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This piece contains an insult referring to incestual sexual abuse. Also heavy homophobia.

The library has been their haven but now it becomes something more. For two weeks they hide behind their books like always only now they're kissing instead of studying. For two weeks they're alone, safe in their little bubble, until one day they're not alone and someone sees them without their noticing it.  
  
John never finds out who it was, whose prying eyes it was that caught them. In the end it doesn't matter. What matters is that by the morning of the next day the whole school knows.  
  
John doesn't realize it at first, doesn't notice the way people are looking at him, can't possibly be expecting it. He's in the hall, Jim by his side when a boy they're passing yells out: "Make way for the shirt-lifting cocksuckers! Make way!"  
  
It's makes him stumble; there's no doubt that the boy means them. Means _him_. There's laughter around him and his face is so red it almost hurts. Next to him Jim is livid, his body tight with it, his face screwed up in anger.  
  
"Just keep walking," John mutters to him. It's all he can think of to do at the moment. "Just keep walking."  
  
It's a horrible march to his locker and now he knows what the whispers that follow them are about and there's bloody _nothing he can do about it_.  
  
He finally makes it to class when the bell rings. As he takes his seat the girl sitting to his right notices him. The smirk on her face makes his hands form into fists under his desk. He tries to unclench them, tries to ignore it and focus on his work and he breaks the point of his pencil as he takes notes, has to switch to a pen.  
  
On the bright side, if everyone knows there's no reason he can't do something like hold Jim's hand as they walk together. If he's brave enough.  
  
He wants to be. 

Things are suddenly different now, like the way someone tries to trip Jim in the crowded hall. John catches him, steadies him, thinks _fuck it_ and grabs his hand. The unwanted attention will die down in a few weeks, it has to. Seeing them and knowing will become common place and boring and the school will move on to the next big rumor. Maybe he should start one. Jim could think of something interesting enough, he's sure. Maybe even something true, about a teacher perhaps.  
  
In the meantime his overall plan is to try to ignore and stay calm. He pushes down hard on his anger, tries to lock it away. There's so much of it contained inside him that it scares him, frightens him to think of what could happen if he touches it. Ignoring it till it goes away is really the best plan. It is. Really.  
  
"I could blow up the damn school! I could do it, I could get rid of every single one of those brainless banal bastards in one go---"  
  
Jim is not so good with the staying calm thing.  
  
"---or I could do it one by one after school in their houses while they're sleeping in their sweet little beds, wrapped up in their pathetic little dreams, it's not hard to know where they all live, just steal in and chhhhhhhhhk," Jim makes a slashing motion over his throat, "and start with the least offenders first and work up to worst, leave them last so they're pissing themselves with terror and know I'm coming for them, that there's nothing they can do--"  
  
John listens avidly--a bit too avidly--as Jim goes on, finds it strangely cathartic when Jim interrupts his own rant to let out a roar of rage before continuing, full steam ahead, talking about poisoning the cafeteria food. John likes what he's hearing and he shouldn't, shouldn't want Jim to do the things he's saying, it's just ranting, it's not real, it isn't.  
  
"--or I could pluck out their eyes, cut out their tongues and decorate my wall with them, leave them screaming and clawing at their own faces--" It's okay to fantasize, John tells himself. Just like killing his father, none if it is ever really going to happen. It's all okay.

There's one major problem with the whole "ignore and stay calm" plan.  
  
This problem comes neatly labelled with a name.  
  
Carl Powers.  
  
He's younger than John, Jim's age but built bigger, strong from being the school's swimming star. He's apparently decided that aside from swimming, making their lives hell is his calling in life, Jim in particular. (It's more than a bit strange really, how incredibly _focused_ the boy is on Jim, almost like he forgets John is there too sometimes.)  
  
John can't figure what the bloody hell is wrong with this kid. He spends so much _time_ on them.  
  
The day after their official outing Jim comes to school and finds someone has broken into his locker and sprayed the thing down with what is unmistakably urine. (The staff says they can't know, can't prove who did it, but Jim knows it was Powers.) He follows them around, shooting off "questions":  
  
"So which one of you is the bitch that gets buggered? No, wait, we all already know--"  
  
"Hey, fairy, what's it like choking on cock? I know you're knees must be bruised from how much time you spend on them--"  
  
"Did daddy do the bad touch when you were little? Huh? Is that what's wrong with you?"  
  
It's not even been a week but it feels like forever. Every word he says to Jim makes the rage all the more difficult to ignore, and John is horrifically increasingly certain that he is truly going to kill Powers. Just. End it. End _him_.  
  
It's no surprise when things snap.  
  
  


"Oi, faggots! You know who you are!"  
  
Powers is leaning against a locker. His friends are around him, laughing.  
  
"Hey! I'm talking to you! Don't ignore me you little freaks!"  
  
Strangely, despite it not being the most inflammatory thing Powers has ever said, it's what makes John let go of Jim's hand and _stop_. Powers wants attention? John will give him all kinds of attention. He feels not in control of what he's doing, he's stopping, he's turning he's moving---  
  
And then Jim is making a noise like an attacking pterodactyl and is somehow moving faster, pushing John back and getting there first. The sound draws every eye in the hallway to them, watching, staring.  
  
"Oooooh, I know you want my attention. You want it _bad_ and I know you want _me_. Every word out of your mouth is a description of yourself and you just _love_ talking about yourself, want me to know, want my _attention_ \--"  
  
"You creepy little fuck what the hell are you talking about---"  
  
"SHUT UP!" Jim roars. His hands shoot up in front of him, fingers curled like claws, swiping. "Shut up, I'm talking about you, you stupid fuck and how I know you want me and really that's not surprising, I'm brilliant and fit and preeeeetty fantastic and you just can't handle that, can't handle yourself, can't handle the way you spend too much time in the gym showers with the boys after practice, always the last the leave, can't handle the way you look and watch and want, like to spend time with your oh so fit little teammates in your little speedos just a little too much and--"  
  
"That's not true, that's not true!"  
  
There is panic mixed in with Powers' anger and his friends sense it, look at him strangely. Every point Jim is hitting is true, John realizes then thinks well of course. Obviously they're true. It's Jim. Of course he knows.  
  
"Shut your mouth," Powers growls, moving forward.  
  
"Oh, my mouth? You mean the mouth you wank your tiny dick off to thinking of at night?" Powers makes a strangled sound and Jim _laughs_ at him. "You're pathetic, just as disgusting as you think you are and I would never, ever look at you not ever in a million billion triiiiiillion years--"  
  
Powers hits Jim.  
  
John's brain goes very quiet, very focused, and he has his hands clenched in Powers' shirt, propelling him backwards to slam him against the lockers. Around him Powers' friends are momentarily frozen in surprise as John does it again, then again, _again_ , enjoying the boy's shocked expression as he does it, puts a hand over his face and smashes his head directly against metal.  
  
And now, _now_ people are moving, Powers' friends trying to pry John off of him. They manage to yank him down but he doesn't release his hold and they go crashing to the ground, Powers on top of him. Powers is struggling, trying to fight back and John wants to laugh at the idea that he or his friends think they thing they can hurt him. John fights the Hulk in the form of his father on a regular basis, bigger and scarier and meaner, far more powerful than any of these boys could ever hope to be. They're nothing, _nothing_ and he rolls, shoving Powers to the floor under him, driving a knee into the boys stomach and leaving it there. He keeps hitting, chest, face, arms, everything. He can't stop and someone is trying to drag him away again only there's a yell and they're off him; he doesn't look at them, doesn't care who or how or why. Someone is screaming something, it sounds far away and distant, unimportant and then suddenly there are teachers everywhere. It takes two of them to finally pull John off the boy and restrain him.  
  
When they do, Powers isn't moving.


	8. Don't touch my stuff.

At first, there's talk of expulsion for both of them.  
  
It turns out Jim went at one of the boys trying to drag John off Powers with an uncapped pointy pen, tried to get him in the throat with it then bit the teacher who tried to corral him. When he hears this John can't stop the thought that immediately crosses his mind in response: _I love that boy_. It's twisted and entirely the wrong reaction but that's not really something that John can do anything about.  
  
There's talking, lots of talking and John can't concentrate on any of it. The world keeps going out of focus.  
  
Fortunately for John his record is in his favor. He's never been in trouble in his life, the teachers like him. This is an "isolated incident in which he was provoked". Perhaps they don't have to kick him out.  
  
Jim on the other hand...  
  
The staff--well, to put it plainly, they hate his guts.  
  
Their parents are called. John is old enough that his are informed over the phone but don't have to come in to talk with the principal and get him. Gosh, that's going to be such a fun thing to go home to.  
  
Since Jim is younger, his mother _does_ have to come in. John and Jim sit outside the principals office in chairs side by side as they wait. John's too out of it to talk, the world around him too unreal and Jim is still too wrapped up in his own mess of emotions. The school Jim's mother works at must be nearby because she's there before he knows it, or perhaps it's just the way his sense of time is distorted right now, and she glides in with that distorted air of hers. She and Jim disappear behind the door.  
  
John never knows what was said but whatever it was, Jim doesn't get expelled. Instead both of them are suspended for three weeks.  
  
Fine. Whatever. He doesn't care.  
  
When he gets home and his father breaks his nose, bruises his cheek bone and his mother screams at him, John can't care about that either. It's worth it. It's worth it and he'd do it again. 

John spends the first two days returning to his senses, his rage tamping down enough for him to control it instead of it controlling him and he's back to being scared of himself. He could have killed Powers. He could have killed someone, ended a life. There's a part of him that's loud now without the anger drowning it out, saying how wrong that is, nevermind the situation and it's driving him crazy because despite it John _still_ can't bring himself to regret anything.  
  
He needs to see Jim.  
  
The next morning after his parents leave for work he hops on the bus, knocks on Jim's front door. When no one answers he starts banging.   
  
There's a yelled " _What?_ " as it's finally irritably yanked open by Jim, then he sees who it is. Before John can do more than open his mouth Jim is grabbing him by the front of the shirt commanding "Get in here, get in here _now_ ," and reeling him in. He doesn't let go, slamming the door behind them and dragging John to his room, slamming that door too. He pushes John up against the wood and John's too surprised to say anything.   
  
" _John_." Jim is so close, almost pressed up against him, hands moving over his arms, his chest, moving up to his neck like they can't stop touching. Jim swallows visibly, talks like he's breathing hard and he _is_ , John can feel the up and down movements of his chest brushing against him. "What you did. What you did was, it was---"  
  
And Jim is on him, mashing their mouths together and kissing like his life depends on it. John forgets why he is here, forgets his doubts and fears and kisses back, bringing his arms up around Jim, trying to get him as close as possible. Jim makes a small moan as they press together then John can feel it, can feel the hardness in the other boy's trousers, grabs him by the hips and grinds them together, can feel the way he himself is getting hard in response. His mind is filled with the sensations, no room for thoughts of anything else so he doesn't understand it when Jim pulls back suddenly.  
  
"What--?"  
  
" _Move_ ," Jim tells him, yanking again, pulling and pushing John towards the bed and John goes willingly, tries no to trip over his own feet. He falls back against the covers, splayed out, and he has one moment to look up at Jim standing over him, one moment to see his face, see the predatory look in those dark eyes. It thrills him in a way that it probably shouldn't and Jim's on top of him, clumsy with lust as his hands claw at John's shirt, trying to drag it off of him. They manage to coordinate it and then Jim is going for his trousers, undoing and yanking at fabric with the same force he used to get John in the house. John, for his part, is trying to do the same for Jim but it's not really working, he's too distracted by his own exposure and Jim smacks his hands away, does it himself.   
  
There isn't time for him to see much; Jim is flattening the two of them together and this time the grinding, the feel of hot skin on skin makes his eyes widen, his mouth drop open in a silent _Oh_. Jim takes advantage of it, moves and thrusts and bites hard, painfully at John's parted lips. He's never done that before. John decides he likes it, likes all of it. He grips Jim's sides like he needs to hold him there, fingers fisting in his shirt. He'd like to get that off, get to bare skin but it seems like too much effort at the moment, would take too much concentration.  
  
Then Jim puts his hand directly on John's cock, closes his fingers around it, drags up and down, once, twice. John makes an unearthly noise as his whole body _jerks_ , his face screwing up and head twisting to the side. Jim does it again, keeps going, more confident now, leaning back just enough to watch John's reactions. It feels so _good_ and he's panting, whimpering, gasping, desperate for it.  
  
"Oh god," Jim breathes. "Look at you, look at you do you know, in my room so many times, on, oh, in my room on my bed where you _belong_ , I, _looking_ at you, fuck..."  
  
John's not really in any state to make sense of the words, he just doesn't want Jim to ever stop.   
  
It doesn't take long and when John comes his eyes screw shut and he's burning, burning; can't hear his own voice crying out as it happens. 

The feeling leaves him slowly. Every single muscle in his body is relaxed and he opens his eyes dimly to look at Jim. He feels like he should say something but his thoughts are utterly blank so he just reaches up with a lethargic hand and draws Jim's head down for a kiss.  
  
Jim thrusts against him like intercourse and suddenly the idea is bright in his mind, Jim not just on him but _in_ him and it sends a spike of want through him. For now though he gropes between their bodies, finds Jim's cock and grips it, strokes.   
  
Jim gasps against him and pushes himself up, moving to his knees and putting his hands on either side of John's head. With Jim directly over him the angle is better, easier.   
  
" _Oh_ , yes, John, John," he babbles, the words falling out of his mouth as his hips shift in time with John's movements. "You were amazing, do you, do you know that, when you, I, you're the only, mine, _mine_ , _oh_ \--" he makes a breathy sound as John moves his hand faster. He watches Jim's face, wanting to memorize each twist of pleasure, wanting to remember this moment till the day he dies. "Amazing, John," Jim gasps.   
  
He moans then suddenly growls " _Mine_ ," and jerks down to bite John's bottom lip hard enough to break the skin, make it bleed. John feels something wet spurt onto the bare skin of his stomach, his chest. Jim's arms are shaking as he at first pulls away then just collapses on top of John, face pressing against his neck. He's heavy but John doesn't mind, likes it, links his hands at the small of Jim's back so that he won't move away.  
  
" _Oh_."   
  
John closes his eyes. He's never been so content.

They stay like that for a time, John doesn't know how long, doesn't care. Finally Jim starts levering himself up, trying to move himself off and John has to let him go. He doesn't want to but he does. Jim lays on his side next to him. He turns his head to look at the other boy. Jim's eyes are busy scanning up and down John's body, focusing on his cock, on the white mess smeared on his torso then up to the bloody lip. He reaches out to trace a finger over John's mouth then takes in the rest of his face, the crook of his nose and the bruise on his cheek.   
  
"You've been mine since the day I met you," Jim says softly. "People need to stop hurting you."  
  
John doesn't dispute the claim; there's nothing to dispute. He just huffs lightly and says "Yeah, that would be nice wouldn't it."  
  
Jim's eyes harden. "It's going to stop. I promise you, John. I've got a plan."  
  
"Oh? What is it?"  
  
"I can't tell you yet. It's not ready. But don't worry, it'll be soon."  
  
"Okay."  
  
John wants to stay blissful and content but now the outside world is intruding, his original reason for coming here slipping back into his thoughts. His mouth twists.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I..." John takes a deep breath, in and out before admitting, "I'm scared."  
  
Jim sits up. "Of what?"  
  
"Myself. I could have killed Powers, I wanted to, I think I was trying to and I was so out of control, _completely_ out of control, I have all these--these bad things in me and what kind of person am I?"  
  
"I wish you _had_ killed him."  
  
John blinks. "What?"  
  
"Though I'm glad you didn't. You would have gone to jail and that would have been all kinds of horrible," Jim continued. "What you did wasn't wrong it was _amazing_ John, and I'm glad you did it. Powers doesn't deserve to be walking around breathing."  
  
Most of John wants to agree, but--"It's...not exactly good that we feel this way," and it feels like admitting a crime, saying 'we' instead of 'you'.  
  
"Why? Why not? Who says we shouldn't, some prick with a made up law book?" Jim's mouth is tight. "That's all they are. Made up rules made to control people and keep the mindless sheep in pretty little rows. Meaningless. We're _better_ than them, John. So, sooooo much better."  
  
The turmoil in John's mind must show on his face because Jim sighs, reaching out to lace their fingers together and brings the back of John's hand to his cheek.   
  
"It's going to be okay, John. I promise. Just wait."  
  
John nods, and trusts him.

 

It sets a precedent; every day instead of staying home he goes to spend his suspension with Jim. The younger boy spends a great deal of time busy with his chemistry set and when John asks what he's working on Jim just smiles and says it's a surprise.  
  
"For who?"  
  
"You'll see."  
  
The other hours are spent on Jim's bed and they never move beyond handjobs and kissing but that's okay, John wants to fully enjoy exploring this step first, is perfecting how and where to touch Jim, learning exactly what he likes and enjoys Jim learning him.  
  
(He asks on one of the days, curious, what Jim's mother said about the suspension and the younger boy looks wistful.   
  
"She asked me if I drew blood when I bit the teacher," Jim says softly, eyes distant. "When I said yes she called me a good boy. For a moment, it was almost like she was herself again.")  
  
John's always careful to leave and get home well before his parents, taking a much needed shower and when they arrive he's sitting in his room with his school books like a good boy.  
  
Then their three weeks are up and it's time to face returning to school.


	9. Can he fix it? YES! HE! CAN!

John's not sure what to expect from the student body when they get back. After all, he hadn't ever imagined people doing weird shite like pissing in lockers. How much worse will it be now?  
  
It turns out he needn't of worried: Everyone is fucking _scared_ of him.  
  
Jim had the reputation of being a nutter but now John has the reputation of being a violently dangerous nutter and apparently no one wants to mess with that.  
  
That suits John just fine. He walks through the crowd of students and people _move_ to get out of the way, afraid that so much as brushing up against him or Jim will set him off. It makes him feel powerful instead of outcast and it's the wrong sort of power, fear and violence, the kind his father wields. John can't help but enjoy it all the same.  
  
Jim is certainly pleased with it, has no shame about it. He bounces on his toes.  
  
"Let them hate me as long as they fear me," he quotes, beaming.  
  
In class, he catches the teachers sometimes giving him careful looks. He's not the person they thought he was. He wants them to get over it. No one's ever known him, not really. No one but Jim.  
  
There's one thing he wasn't thinking about, most likely because he didn't want to:  
  
Carl Powers is still at school.  
  
Carl Powers is still at school, half healed busted face, bruised ribs and all. He stays the fuck away from John, from Jim, and John thinks, hopes, that this means the problem is solved until one day he's standing frozen in front of his locker staring at the word written in big black blocky letters that cover the whole surface from top to bottom:  
__**F  
** A  
G  
G  
O  
T  
John can't move, feels the rage rushing through him, wishes he'd broken Powers' ribs instead of just bruised them, made them puncture a lung. Wishes he'd killed him. Wants to go find him and do it.  
  
Suddenly roles are reversed: Now it's Jim who wants to go with the whole be calm and ignore it thing. John doesn't understand it. What happened to plucking people's eyes out?  
  
"I told you, everything's going to be okay," Jim says smiling, running a soothing hand up and down John's arm in the library. "It will be, trust me."  
  
Three weeks later at a swim meet Carl Powers drowns.

 

He hears the news from Jim first. The younger boy is glowing, radiating light as he says it. He asks John how he feels about it. John can't help but say the first thing that comes to mind.  
  
"Good."  
  
Jim seems inordinately pleased with this.  
  
" _You_ need to come to my house this weekend," he says, drawing a finger down John's chest. "It's important. Reaaaaally important."  
  
John hesitates, firstly because of the sudden change in subject and then because Jim knows his parents don't let him out on weekends and are still angry about his suspension on top of that.  
  
"Convince them. Tell them you have a great big test that your grade depends on and you desperately need my help to study or something. You _need_ to. It's the most important thing in the whole wide world right now and you'll love it, John."  
  
John gets to work on his mother that night, begging and pleading and stressing how big this math test is, reminding her that it's Jim's specialty. She's angry of course, the suspension still fresh in her mind and yells her displeasure about John being too stupid to study for this test himself but he keeps at it, groveling until she relents.  
  
  
The weekend comes and John is in Jim's house, in his room and Jim is closing the door, moving to kiss John hello. It's a simple thing but John can't help the automatic smile the act generates.  
  
"Okay, I'm here. What's the big deal?"  
  
Jim steps back, beaming. "I have something to show you."  
  
He goes to pull something out from under the bed, a box. He caresses the lid as he brings it over to John, opens it, looks down at the contents lovingly then at John. Inside is a pair of white sneakers.  
  
John blinks, confused. "Shoes?" He frowns. "Those are too big for you."  
  
"Well of _course_ they are," Jim says. "They're not mine. They belonged to Carl Powers."  
  
This does nothing to help John's confusion. "You stole a dead boys shoes. Why?"  
  
Jim's eyes are burning brighter than John has ever seen. His smile is breaking his face. He bounces, moving closer.  
  
"Because I killed him."  
  
John stares. "Jim," he says slowly, "he _drowned_. You weren't even there."  
  
"Ooooh no, no, no." Jim shakes his head. "I was there. I was there and I watched evvvvery itty bitty bit of it, the panicking and the dying. _I_ made it happen."  
  
"What, with the power of your mind?"  
  
Jim tilts his head. "Sort of. I made the poison that caused the seizure that made him drown." He laughs. "I told you I was working on a surprise, I _told_ you. I _told_ you I had a plan, that everything was going to be okay. And it is!"  

If it were anyone else John wouldn't believe them, would think they were crazy but this is Jim, brilliant Jim, and John can feel his heart racing. His mind is stopping and starting, no idea how he feels or what to do and Jim is clearly waiting for a reaction.  
  
Jim holds the box out to him, like a present. "He'll never hurt us again."  
  
When John fails to do or say anything Jim's expression starts to falter.  
  
"Don't you like it? You were happy he was dead. You even wanted to make it happen yourself, remember?"  
  
John finds enough breath to say "Being happy someone is dead and being happy they were murdered are two different things, Jim."  
  
Jim's face scrunches up. "No they aren't. The person's dead either way. Dead is dead."  
  
Which makes far, far too much sense to John but--"Jim, Jim you _killed_ someone---"  
  
John needs to sit down. He needs to sit down and breathe and dear god, Jim _killed_ someone.  
  
"He needed to die!" Jim yells. "He needed to die and you know it, we _talked_ about this, you _know_ this! You wanted it as much as I did!"  
  
The person he loves is a murderer.  
  
Jim lowers the box, his whole body crumpling. "You were supposed to like it."  
  
And the thing is--  
  
Jim knows John better than he knows himself because his mind is settling, adjusting, becoming clearer and the thing is--  
  
John _does_ like it.  
  
It's a terrible truth; John likes it, is happy Powers was killed, is actually impressed with Jim and his ability to have literally gotten away with murder, that he used his intelligence to destroy Powers.  
  
"I do. I do like it," he whispers, horrified with himself.  
  
Jim perks up and then makes a hum of understanding. "And you think you shouldn't."  
  
He goes to set the box on the bed then comes back, moving into John's personal space, reaching out and grasping both of John's hands with his own, bringing them up to shoulder height.  
  
"John," he says softly, warmly. "There's nothing to feel bad about. He hurt us and he payed for it. It's very simple."  
  
There's a more than large part of John that agrees. He closes his eyes.  
  
"I--I--"  
  
"Shhhhhh," Jim soothes, letting go of John's hands to run his fingers gently up his arms, shoulders, neck, face. "It's okay. I fixed it and everything's fine. It's all fine."  
  
John breathes, concentrates on the feeling of Jim's hands on him, lets his voice and his words drown out and drive away the far too small voice that says this is all wrong. Thinks about how much he loves this boy.  
  
He opens his eyes, whispers "You fixed it."  
  
It's the perfect thing to say. Jim's smile comes back in full force.  
  
"And you know what the best part is?"  
  
Oh god there's more? John's not sure he can handle that right now.  
  
"He was just a test subject. A first trial." Jim pauses. "Do you remember when I said I'd find a way to kill your father? Make a perfect plan?"  
  
John nods, breathless all over again. He already knows what Jim is going to say.  
  
"I found it! I found it! I--" He looks away suddenly. "I'm sorry it took so long, I'm so, so sorry. But I found it, John. We can get rid of that worthless bastard and you won't have to be afraid ever again."  
  
John kisses him.  
  
This is most certainly not a healthy reaction, not the right one, but John is finding out right now that there's a lot of things wrong with him so he might as well go for broke. It's all so much, too much, overwhelming him. The idea of being free. Sure, he could run away to university but there would always be that niggling fear that he'd be dragged back somehow one day, never achieving a true escape from his father's grasp, it not really being _over_. You were never free of your parents until they were dead and sadly, for some people, not even after that, their lives haunted by lingering ghosts in the mind. He doesn't want to be a murderer, but he wants his freedom more.  
  
"How do we do it?"  
  
Jim tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a mistake here: Jim says the toxin caused a seizure. The toxin causes total paralysis of both voluntary and involuntary movements, not seizures. All the flailing was Powers panicking because his body was shutting down.


	10. The comic that kid published, Parricide? I always liked that comic.

In John's room is a syringe full of death. It sits there waiting, small and unassuming, ready to be used at any time.  
  
"Botulinum toxin," Jim had said proudly, holding up a capped pipette. "Almost entirely undetectable and no one has the imagination to look for it in the first place. Get this into his system and poof!" He waved a hand like a magician. "One way trip to the morgue."  
  
John looked at it, the little glass vial that held the solution to his problems. It was so elegant, so simple, so _brilliant_. So _Jim_. He'd immediately known what to do with it.  
  
His father had the routine of having a healthy snack right before bed, food fresh from an outdoor market. Sliced green and red peppers, strawberries, celery, fruits, each night ingested without fail. If he could get the toxin in there somehow...  
  
Jim had found a way, found what they needed. Had looked at John like _he_ was the brilliant one when he'd suggested it.  
  
Despite this, John has chickened out twice already. There was the apple, the orange. He could have used those, could have pumped the moist insides full of poison but he hasn't. It makes him feel stupid and useless, as much a failure as his parents have always said. Jim has done so much for him, has gone so far, given him all the weapons he needs to slay the greatest monster of John's life. Why can't he move forward and take the last step? John knows he wants this, tries to talk himself up, thinks of his dreams, of him and Jim being together and happy and _safe_. He can have that. He can have that if he just _does_ this.  
  
Only--it's so _big_.  
  
It frightens him, the reality of going beyond fantasy and actually killing someone. But Jim's done it, Jim's done it already and John can't think of him as wrong, can't love him any less. Can't think of him as a bad person. Why does he think that he himself will be? ("It's all just social conditioning," Jim says in his head.)  
  
Then it's a friday and his mother brings home three red ripe tomatoes and upon seeing them something in his mind _shifts_.  
  
Maybe he was just waiting for exactly the right moment and didn't know it.  
  
He looks at them sitting in their decorative basket on the counter, at the bright flawless color of them. The soft skin appears so perfect and he knows this, _this_ is going to be the last thing his father ever eats, the last thing he ever does.  
  
He gets the syringe, he uncaps it the way Jim did with that pointy pen, trying to defend John, sticks the needle right into the center of one through the small round green part on the top and it's done. It's done.  
  
There's a part of him not happy with it being in his father's sleep, a part that wants his father awake and suffering the way John has, that wants to be standing over him and watching as it happens. But this is the way it has to be.  
  
He can't help the way he stays awake that night.  
  
Twenty minutes after his parents' alarm goes off the next morning his mother starts to scream.  
  
"Hamish? _Hamish_!"  
  
John feels glorious.

 

The paramedics arrive and the police arrive, all of them useless. His mother can't stop crying. 

"He was fine! He was fine last night!" she wails to them.

As soon as the lights swarm his driveway John is dialing a number he's never called before but knows by heart.

"Yeah?" Jim says, picking up on the third ring.

John doesn't bother saying who it is, doesn't bother with pleasantries just says "You need to come over."

It was Jim's idea, of course it was, he was good at this, that twist of the knife: The day John went through with things would mean letting his mum know the truth about the two of them.

He hears the intake of breath over the line. "Oh John." There's ecstasy in the word, in his name. "I'll be there soon."

John is still wearing his pajamas, arms wrapped comfortingly around himself and giving his short statement to a police officer when Jim shows up. ("This is just a formality," the officer assures him, treating John carefully like he's in shock. John is in way, only not for the reasons the man assumes.)

"John?" he calls out, approaching, "John? What's going on?"

Jim comes up and stands close, too close for two people who are simple friends.

"What is all this? Are you okay?"

"And you are?" the officer asks, eyebrow raised.

"This is--this is Jim," John says shakily. "I called him. He's--he's my--friend."

Jim doesn't even look at the man, has eyes only for John. He puts a concerned hand on the small of John's back. John automatically turns partially toward him, into him.

"Uh-huh," the officer intones.

They stand there looking as small and fey as possible while the policeman finishes up his questions. It's not hard given their builds and how unassuming John comes across naturally.

John's mother wants to ride in the ambulance with her dead husband. The paramedics gently refuse her, direct her back into the house.

"Go be with your son," one of them tells her.

They leave all leave, clear out and then it's just the three of them. His mum doesn't seem to have really noticed Jim yet, even when they're all inside. She's still crying.

"Mum," John says, his hand firmly laced with Jim's. "Mum!"

She turns, looks, focuses through her tears.

"Jim?" she hiccups, confused. "What are you doing here?"

He couldn't have asked for a better opening.

"He's my boyfriend, mum."

She stares at them, uncomprehending then backs away.

"You--you--your father is dead and you--you--" She stutters like she can't find words horrible enough to encompass the situation then screams "Get out!"

"No."

He relishes it, how utterly helpless she looks, feels. He's never talked back to her, never disobeyed her in his life and she doesn't know what to do. She clearly casts about for something, anything, that makes sense.

"I'm--I'm calling Harry."

Fine. Good. Go do that. John leaves her to it and pulls Jim to his room.

"So," Jim says, clapping his hands together once the door is shut. "That went well."

John looks at him, at his bright eyes and smiling face and it washes over him in full, what's happened, what he's done, what it all means and the loudest thought of all: Jim made this happen.

His breath is coming fast and he reaches out slowly, carefully, one hand at a time towards each side of Jim's face, touching, the other boy aware of the change, watching him intensely. John pulls the two of them together and kisses him as hard and as deeply as he can, thoroughly, Jim responding in kind, gripping John's arms tightly.

Jim made this happen and the knowledge burns through him, makes him want.

Still kissing he walks Jim backwards till the back of the other boy's legs hit John's bed then detaches, pushes at him to sit. Jim's hand moves towards the waistband of John's cotton pants but before he can make contact John is sinking to the floor, moving to kneel between Jim's legs.

"Oh my god," Jim breathes, "oh my god, John." He sounds half-undone and John hasn't even touched him yet, hasn't even gotten his trousers open.

Then he does and Jim's cock is in his hand, familiar, and he leans forward, pressing his tongue flat against the head. Above him, Jim makes a strangled sound as he licks his way up the shaft then back down, exploring before fitting it between his lips. He takes it into his mouth, sinking down carefully, adjusting, tasting. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jim's hand flail uselessly, feels his hips jerk, hears him gasp out John's name. He pulls back then pushes forward again, repeats the motion then starts sucking as he moves, starts using his hand where his mouth isn't yet skilled enough to reach.

It prompts Jim into talking, of course it does; if there's one thing he's discovered it's that Jim has a tendency to run at the mouth any time John's touching his cock, the words interspaced with noises and moans.

"Oh, you, fuck, you did it, you, you did it, god, what you're doing, you, you--"

It makes John bolder, more confident and he increases the speed of his movements, tries to take more until he gags and has to pull back, pull off for a moment to catch his breath then goes back to what he can do at the moment. Jim's cock is hot and thick in his mouth and his eyes drift closed, enjoying the feel of it. Twitching fingers touch the side of his face, his hair, his ear and now Jim's saying things John's never heard before, calling him things like "darling" and "love". The endearments wash through him, fill him like fire, so much heat it almost hurts and his cock throbs, trapped behind fabric.

Jim makes a startled, surprised sound and suddenly John is choking, come hitting his throat. He pulls back automatically, the rest landing on his tongue before his mouth is free and he is coughing, swallowing without meaning to, gasping. He coughs a bit more and Jim falls backwards on the bed like he's dead. John looks at him, heaving chest and softening cock damp with John's saliva and he can't ignore his own anymore, can't wait for Jim to recover. He fumbles his waistband down and grasps himself, stroking fast. He can still taste Jim, still feel his heat.

His father's been murdered, his mother is in the living room broken, an entire school full of people are afraid of him and he's just overloaded his boyfriend's brilliant brain with so much pleasure that it's completely flatlined. He's burning with power, he's the most powerful person in the world.

John comes harder than he ever has in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the biggest changes to the plot is at this point: Instead of John staying after his father's death he will do exactly as his mother says and "get out", using it as an opportunity to run away and never speak to her again. He takes up residence with Jim and his Mam, the three of them becoming a little family, and after Jim leaves for university, John of course continues living with Mam and the two of them take care of each other and become all squishy and everything is sunshine and rainbows ladida. All chapter written post-John's return from war will reflect this plot change.


	11. watch out, we got a badass over here

John waits, waits for the police to show up and arrest him, waits for the guilt to come.  
  
Neither thing happens.  
  
Instead he's happy, that glowing ball of joy not leaving his chest even as more time passes. Jim is too he can tell, and the two of them are closer than ever, tied together forever by the murderous things that they have done. Nothing can bring them down and nothing can pull them apart, not even Jim walking across the graduation stage a full year before John will.  
  
That summer John spends as absolutely little time in his own silent house as is possible with him still technically living there. It's always silent now, has been since the day his father died; his mother never speaks to him anymore and that's just fine with him. She doesn't ever call Harry and his sister doesn't come home.  
  
(John had eventually ventured out of his room on the day of his father's death, heading to the kitchen to get cups of water for himself and Jim and passed his mother sitting staring blankly in an armchair on the way.  
  
"I talked to your sister," she said dazed. "I told her about Hamish. And what's wrong with you." There had been a long pause during which John wondered if he was supposed to act like he cared. "She said--she said she's a _dyke_." John had gone, gotten the drinks as fast as he could because he was rapidly losing his composure. On his way back he'd naturally had to pass her again, just in time to hear her wonder, heartbroken and confused: "Where did we go wrong?"  
  
John had barely made it back to his room, to Jim. He hadn't thought this day could get any better but BAM! His sister had gone and done that with the most perfect timing on the whole wide face of the earth. For a moment, just a moment, it almost made him like her and he and Jim had laughed themselves sick.)  
  
It's still quite a change for them when it comes time for Jim to be off for London but John is less worried about it than anyone would expect. They can call, they can even visit on weekends and there's nothing like shared murder to make you secure in what you are to a person. Instead of being consumed with fears he _hopes_ that Jim will meet new people and make friends, hopes that people will recognize how wonderful he is instead of dismissing him as a creepy little freak, hopes that London will be a place where Jim can finally feel at _home_.  
  
"I'm stuck in a _dorm_. With three roomates. _Three_ ," Jim grits out over the phone. "One of them's some bohemoth that got held back a year. He took one look at me and went 'LITTLE MAAAAAAN!' and _ruffled my hair_. I've thrown rocks through windows that were smarter than this bloke! Crash smash bash-- _still superior_!"  
  
"At least he's friendly, likes you."  
  
"Ooooh not for long," Jim promises darkly. "I want space and I want privacy and I _don't_ want obnoxious hooligans making all kinds of a ruckus in my room and in the halls. No, I'm going to make sure _no one_ wants to room with me, make sure they don't even want me in the building and then ta-da! They'll give me private housing just to make the problem go away. I have a plan and I'll have my own place by next year at the latest, just you see."  
  
His voice goes soft. "And John, you know what that _really_ means? Next year, no matter which school you choose, you can stay with me. We could live together, darling."  
  
John's smile is breaking his face and he knows Jim can tell over the phone. "Have I mentioned that you're brilliant and I love your plans?" 

Things in his own school are pretty good, he thinks, can't care about the complete isolation he's experiencing in every aspect save his long distance relationship. Somehow people found out about the death of his father and, hilariously, there are rumors that John killed him. They don't worry him; there are multiple different ways it's told but the most prevalent story is that John stabbed him repeatedly before trying to go after his mother and it's all utterly ridiculous. If he'd gone and done something like that, had ever given in to one of his obvious and bloody desires he'd be in jail, not taking notes in english class and Jim saved him from that.  
  
Despite this, one group of kids get up the nerve once to try and stop him after the last bell rings.  
  
"Where's your boyfriend, freak," one jeers at him, his friends gathered tight to him, slowly creeping forward around John. "He dump you?"  
  
John is bold, won't be intimidated. "He _graduated_. You know, that thing that you probably won't do?"  
  
It makes the boy's face contort and now the friends are moving to advance a lot less subtly toward John. He ignores them, just looks the leader dead in the eye and warns, "There were more of them last time, too."  
  
They stop, back off, leave him alone.  
  
The boys, the other students in general, even the teachers now. They all leave him alone.

The problem with the application process is that John has no bloody clue what he wants to do with his life. He fills out form after form to practically every school in London and feels blind as he does it. What does he want to study? What the hell can he declare as his major? He's sure though, boyoued by Jim's encouragement and unwavering belief in him that he'll be accepted _somewhere_. He's not at Jim's level--no one is, his mind brilliant and burning hot like the sun, above them all, untouchable--but he's not an idiot.  
  
On a friday night John rushes to finish all of his homework, freeing up his weekend. The next day he steals money from his mothers purse and takes a train into London. Jim meets him at the station, hugs him when he steps onto the platform. They're almost the same height now and John likes that, likes that he can put his head on the other boy's shoulder, close his eyes and feel Jim's pleased hum. They don't dare go further than that in public, don't hold hands as Jim shows him around his campus, the buildings, the quad, until they end the tour in the dorm, where they can more properly greet each other, kissing.  
  
John stands in the small space that passes for a front room, takes in the tiny squeezed in kitchenette, the two crampt bedrooms that hold four people and the one bathroom they all share.  
  
"Look at this, _look_ at this," Jim rants, waving his hands around. "How am I supposed to get anything done here?"  
  
John meets all three of the rowdy roommates as they burst in through the door a bit later, looking to get ready for some kind of party happening that night.  
  
"Hello _hello_!" bellows one, unmistakably The Behemoth. "Little Jim's friend, eh? Don't suppose you want to come with us? It's going to be _wild_ , mate."  
  
He's not surprised or offended when John politely refuses. John's here to spend time with Jim and if these blokes are all off getting smashed then that means the two of them will get to be alone.  
  
"Worth a shot. I keep inviting our boy here along but so far, no dice." He grins, winks. "Likes to be anti-social, that one. Pretty shocking to find that he even has a friend, really."  
  
Jim glares, growls "I've got better things to do with my time and my brain cells than join you arses in acting like a drunken ape."  
  
The other two bristle but The Behemoth seems immune, just laughs, even when Jim starts yelling at them to get their shite and go. One of them starts yelling back, a wiry boy that's overly concerned with gelling his hair exactly right. John stays out of it, even when the boy tosses a tube of gel angrily in Jim's general direction. Jim's handling himself fine and John knows this is all part of his plan to be The Roommate From Hell. It seems to be going pretty well, John doesn't need to help.  
  
Finally, _finally_ they're gone and Jim takes a moment to breathe in and out deeply in the sudden silence that the two of them are left in.  
  
"God I hate them," he says. "I'm moving up the next step, see how they like my experiments with poisonous mold cultures when I leave them sitting in the shower."

John laughs and like a switch has been flicked, Jim's whole mood changes.  
  
"Come on." He grabs John, tugs him over the short distance that takes them from the front room to by Jim's bed. He locks the door, takes the chair from his cluttered desk and puts it under the handle. "There."  
  
"I think we've gotten to the best part of the tour," John says, mischievous and now Jim is laughing, moving to touch him, kiss him.  
  
"Oh, you betchya."  
  
Shirts are removed, trousers are undone and bare skin is touched, caressed as John lays back on the bed, Jim comfortably over him. The younger boy nips at his jaw then bites hard enough on his neck to leave teeth marks, moves down to his chest.  
  
"Wherever my bed is, that's where you should be," he breathes. John makes a noise of pleased agreement and Jim slides lower to lick and suck and John is lost, lost.  
  
He spends the night with an arm over Jim and neither of them wake, not even when the roommates come back and one bangs drunkenly on the door, demanding to be let in so he can get to his bed.  
  
When he finally gets home late on sunday he finds a packed bag full of his clothes in front of the door and that his key no longer opens the lock. His mother has kicked him out. John takes the bag and moves around the to the side of the house, breaks a window and gets in that way. She's not getting rid of him until graduation.


	12. he has nerve and he has knowledge

It turns out the roommates are not completely oblivious: They've figured out what was going on behind that locked door, figured out that the two of them are a pair of queers. The Behemoth, who had seemed so agreeable, immediately breaks his housing contract with the school and finds somewhere else to live.  
  
Well. That was easy.   
  
Jim keeps him updated on the project and then phase one is accomplished, Jim left alone in the room and he turns his attention to the rest of the building. Creating a chemical reaction he floods the whole floor with noxious gases, so bad they have to evacuate the whole building to be safe, then does it again. He turns on every single overhead sprinkler in unison multiple times, leaves smoke bombs in the lobby and by the time he gets around to painting the seven foot tall words "MATH IS MIGHT" on every floor in the middle of the night the school staff are so sick of his antics and all the complaints they've received that Jim accomplishes his goal.   
  
"At first they tried to pretend like they were going to kick me out," he tells John smugly. "Like _that_ was going to happen, _pah_. I'm too smart, they want the school to get credit for whatever I wind up publishing. I got it, John, I got it! Starting soon: You, me, and a little apartment juuuust a bit off-campus."  
  
It's going to be _wonderful_. John can't wait.  
  
A-levels happen and before he knows it he's graduating, utterly unbothered when not a single person claps as he takes his diploma. He's leaving them all behind, unimportant. All that matters are the Outstanding marks he's received and the acceptance letters that start coming in. He's pretty sure of his university choice though he has no idea how he's going to pay for it but at the moment he's far more focused on gathering his belongings together so he can leave the house for the last time. It turns out there's not much he wants to take with him, mostly just clothes; there are no memories that he wants brought along into what he thinks of as his new life.   
  
He doesn't say goodbye to his mother.  
  
Jim is vibrating with energized excitement when John steps off the train, grabbing at John and at his bags to get them home faster. And that's what it is, John thinks-- _home_. When they arrive the first thing they do is put his clothes up in the closet and John looks at them, hanging side by side with Jim's and it feels so _right_. Neither of them can stop smiling.  
  
It's a small place but it has a nice layout, enough space for the two of them. Technically it's for a single person, technically John's not supposed to be living there but Jim dismisses the rules with a wave of his hand.  
  
"Those idiots won't notice and if they do I'll say you're only visiting. What are they going to do, kick you out?" He snorts. "I'll just bring you right back."

John makes his selection--not the same university as Jim but that's okay, they're bloody _living together_ they don't need to be on the same campus to feel close. It means the biggest problem is right in his face: He needs a way to finance himself.  
  
He starts looking for work the day after he moves in, traversing the busy streets to stop in at cafes, book stores, record dealers, restaurants. John is young, has no experience, is new to the city and he's nervous but he'd forgotten that he was good with people, good at talking to them, charming them into liking him. He's got a couple of prospects, feeling optimistic as he's waiting to take the tube home when he passes an advert poster on the wall that catches his eye.  
  
 **BE THE BEST** , it says, with a little British flag under the words. It's a recruitment poster for the army and in smaller print it details some of the benefits of joining. One of those benefits is paying for university.  
  
On the ride all the way home he can't get it out of his head.  
  
It dominates his thoughts for days as he meets with more potential employers, as he sits waiting for a call back from any of them, as he lays next to Jim in bed waiting for sleep. It would be a good, solid solution he thinks, trying not to pay attention to the part of himself that's now obsessed with the idea of how it would feel to have a gun in his hand, to fire one, tries not to acknowledge the call for violence that boils in his blood. Thinks about how it would mean four years away from Jim.  
  
"Okay, out with it," Jim finally demands. "I'm not waiting anymore."  
  
"What?"  
  
Jim sighs and rolls his eyes. "What's eating you, duh. You're preoccupied with something and you want to talk about it but you don't know how and you seem guilty so you think it's a bad thing. Just _say it_ already."  
  
John hesitates, then-"What if I enlisted?"  
  
"They would love you," is the prompt response. "They would _looooove_ you and you would love it and fuck John, you would be such a _perfect_ soldier." Jim blinks, his enthusiasm crumpling, bright eyes dimming. "It would mean you leaving."  
  
"It would pay for school. It would solve everything."  
  
Anger flashes over Jim's face and he looks away. John knows it's not directed at him; Jim's upset with himself that this is a problem he hasn't been able to fix for John. He tries to be cheerful.  
  
"You think I'd be good at it?"  
  
Jim gives him a look. " _Dar_ ling. You would be _amazing_."  
  
They don't say anything more about the subject, at least not out loud. They know each other well enough that a few days later a silent decision is reached and then John is in a recruitment office feeling strangely right as he signs his name on the dotted line.  
  
  
School starts and John finds that classes are classes are classes. It's not boring, exactly, but he still feels a little disappointed. Nothing in particular captures his interest and he still doesn't know what to major in. It's not exactly a problem to be Undeclared and true, now he has the military to look forward to after his education is finished but it bothers him all the same.  
  
In the meantime Jim has fallen in love with technology and he gets a job at a store that sells computers. He wants one and it's one of the few things his scholarships won't cover.  
  
A week later he has one, top of the line.  
  
"It fell off the back of a truck," he tells John innocently. John shouldn't laugh, shouldn't smirk, should scold Jim for stealing instead of feeling almost proud at his pulling off the theft. John can't help it; Jim always finds a way to get what he wants. Always.  
  
John loves it.

John also loves domestic life. It's a good thing he's here, he thinks, because he has no idea how Jim survived last year without him. Jim's brilliant, utterly brilliant, but he's also utterly incapable of remembering to do mundane but important things like oh, say, _buying toilet paper_. (John is pretty sure that Jim believes the roles of tissue appear in the bathroom through some kind of magic.) He needs someone to look after him, to remind him to stop and eat when he's covering the paper lined walls with genius, someone to talk out loud to and bounce ideas off of while he's working through some problem, someone to be around making him tea, steady and reassuring after the pained phone calls to his mother.   
  
It can be frustrating at times but overall John is happy to do it all, happy in their little two person household.  
  
  
One morning after the new year begins John is in the bathroom shaving when he hears a wailed "Nooooooooooooooooo!" from the living room and instantly knows this means the computer has crashed. (Jim treats the thing like a bloody pet; John even caught him hugging and petting the monitor once, calling it a pretty little machine.) After he finishes, planning to have some beans on toast for breakfast because Jim's covered the stove with an experiment that can't be moved, he enters the room to find his boyfriend on the floor muttering, deep in microchips and wiring. He watches Jim's hands move, fixing it, and an assortment of separate thoughts coalesce.  
  
John likes people, he likes being physical and he likes the idea of fixing things, fixing _people_ instead of situations or technology. What career path would combine that? An image flashes through his mind, one of capable hands being deep inside the torso of a human being instead of a computer: A surgeon.  
  
It feels right, the same way it felt right when he enlisted. John is going to be a doctor.  
  
He announces this to Jim, who looks thoughtful for a moment then laughs "Well of _course_ you are." His expression turns sly, teasing. "My boyfriend the respectable doctor. Mum will be so proud."  
  
John applies for a transfer to St. Bart's pre-med programme and is accepted. For some reason John is surprised when he gets his letter, surprised that they think he's good enough and Jim is unhappy with that reaction. "Your self esteem, darling," is all he says.


	13. it's the best day of the year

  
Summer happens, classes letting out and it's a pretty quiet time, full of preemptive studying for next year.  
  
Oh, and sex.  
  
"John. John. John."  
  
He wakes blearily in July to find Jim's put his head on John's chest and is poking at him, not unlike a cat wanting it's human to wake so it can get attention. Jim looks far to awake; it's not that he's a morning person it's just that Jim has three settings: On, off, and _coffee_. John is a bit more varied, and right now he's still stuck at 'just woke up'.  
  
"Hey. I hope you don't mind." Jim looks mock guilty then holds up a tube of lubricant complete with the red bow that John had stuck on the cap as a joke. "I got kind of impatient and found my birthday present early."  
  
John is now completely alert. It's Jim's birthday, he remembers now. He hadn't dropped any hints as to his plans but of course Jim knows anyway.  
  
"Well," he says casually, "that _was_ the eventual plan."  
  
Jim grins at him and sits up and oh hey, nudity. Jim clearly has the right idea here and as they get John's sleep pants off he vows to never wear any ever again. Who invented pants, anyway? People against nudity, that's who. He will not be party to their oppressive pants regime.  
  
It's possible he's a bit giddy.  
  
Clothing banished from the bed, Jim moves to get between his legs, fiddling with the tube. He takes the bow off and sticks it on John's hair.  
  
"There we go."  
  
John laughs and Jim is slicking his fingers.  
  
"Okay," he says. "Okay, I've researched this," and applies his mouth to John's cock at the time that he slides a cautious finger into him.  
  
"Goo--good research," John praises, voice stuttering along with his hips.  
  
It's still a bit odd at first, then John wants more, more fingers more suction more sensation until finally he's reduced to writhing in place, grabbing at Jim's shoulders and he manages to get it together enough to tell the other boy to just get _in_ him already.  
  
Thankfully Jim listens, moves up over him.  
  
"Tell me if anything hurts," he pants, and John just looks at him like he's crazy and makes a frustrated whine, tries to drag him closer, tries to tilt his own hips right. He can feel Jim's cock hot against his arse then in, breaching. John tries to relax, to breathe, so wound up that it's more than a bit difficult. Further and further and Jim's entirely inside him and it _does_ hurt, of course there's pain but John can take it, pain doesn't frighten him. It's well worth it.  
  
"Oh my god, John," Jim says, and it sounds as if he might actually be meeting God. It prompts John into experimenting, shifting one leg up around Jim's waist. Jim lets out a surprised puff of air and starts rocking and oh hey, that's a good idea. The more Jim moves the more John acclimates, adjusts and the better it feels. He rocks back, encouraging, and the thrusts become harder. Jim is kissing him, biting at him, saying how good John feels around him and John touches back in return.

Suddenly Jim is leaning back, like he's gathering himself together, concentrating his focus. His thrusts into John become more deliberate and even through his lust John can instantly recognize that Jim has A Plan and what, no, this is not the time for Plans, this is the time for---  
  
Holy shite.  
  
This is apparently the time for John to go utterly silent and _jerk_ as Jim finds what he was looking for. (The prostate! his medical books inform him helpfully, and thank you medical books for that totally unasked for information, this is really not the time. Why is he suddenly thinking about them right now, textbooks can go the way of pants.) He wants that again and he doesn't have to ask, Jim simply gives it to him. John can feel the other boy's eyes on him, dark and unblinking as he watches John want and take and gasp and it's intense, so intense being the center of all that _focus_. When Jim adds the stimulation of closing his hand around John's cock he can't help but come like a firecracker, hard and with his eyes screwed shut, mouth open silently.  
  
Jim slows but doesn't fully stop moving in him, waiting for him to catch his breath. John wants him to keep moving, makes sure his legs are wrapped around Jim's waist as tightly as he can despite the way all of his muscles want nothing more than to melt into the bed. In his post-orgasm thoughts it's suddenly very, very important that Jim stays and never, ever leaves. This is paramount. Jim makes a noise that John can feel in his whole body.  
  
"John," he says, and his tone sounds desperate. His hips suddenly jerk roughly and his upper body is lower again, rubbing his cheek against John's. "John, I need---I need to--"  
  
John puts his arms up and around Jim's back and breathes " _Yes_."  
  
Jim _growls_ (and John really shouldn't like that as much as he does,) and he starts thrusting wildly, a harsh opposite to the calculated control he used to get John off and it's not unlike suddenly having a dangerous, wild animal on top of him, some fearsom predator that loves him. John can't control the noises he's making, puts his head back and hangs on for dear life, hears the things Jim is snarling, the words not matching his tone, hears "precious" and "darling" and "beautiful".  
  
" _Mine_."  
  
Then, and John has no idea how Jim is managing words let alone near sentences; "No one else ever, you, oh, only me, mine, _made for me mine_ , only, I'm, only one ever going to know you, my, _no one_ \---"  
  
John wants to respond, really, but it's a bit difficult at the moment with the way he's burning from the pleasure and pain sensations in his body. He might as well be on fire.  
  
"Yours," he finally manages, and Jim makes noise like he's dying so John says it again. He can see it as Jim's whole body tenses, can feel it as the other boy comes in him. Jim is frozen above him for a long moment, his face twisted with almost surprised pleasure before he slowly both regains and loses muscle coordination; he moves, but it's just mostly to pull out and make himself at home laying on top of John. He puts his head against John's shoulder then his neck and John can feel him licking lightly at the bite marks left there, tracing them with his tongue.  
  
"If anyone else ever so much as tries to touch you," Jim says softly, so softly, "I will fucking kill them."  
  
John knows he means it. He should be disturbed by the statement, maybe even scared.  
  
Instead he finds it sweet.

"No. Wait. First I'll destroy everything they love. Then I'll kill them. I'll dip them in acid by inches. No, wait..." There's a pause, then Jim levers himself up, looks at John accusingly: "Dammit, John! I can't think!"  
  
Then, "Oh. Fine. Fine. Mock me in my time of weakness," he says, when John starts laughing. John can't help it, it was too perfect. He is going to remember that one until the day he dies, he knows.  
  
Shifting, he hears something crinkle, something odd in his hair. Reaching up to investigate he realized that the stupid red bow had still been stuck on him the entire time and that starts a new round of giggles for him.  
  
("Please describe your first experience of sexual intercourse." "Well, I had a little red bow on my head, my boyfriend was an animal and our minds kind of blew up. Good times.")  
  
John is sticky and sore and he wants to do this every night for the rest of his life. He thinks about the things Jim was saying--that no one else would ever have him, etc.,--and thinks that Jim really has nothing to worry about. Jim is the only person he wants, the only one who can fully truly capture John and his attention and there's not a single person in the world who can compare. John knows he's never going to want anyone else.  
  
He looks at Jim resting on his chest and _knows_ : This is the only person he's ever going to love.

 

So it was possibly the best summer of John's admittedly short life, full of sex and studying--  
  
(And okay, truthfully the sex kind of got in the way of the studying a lot, Jim was apparently on a mission to properly christen every single inch of their apartment and John was completely on board with this plan.)  
  
But there was in fact still learning happening and when it came time for classes to start John was confident enough in himself that he felt he wouldn't make an arse of himself in front of the teachers and other students if they asked him questions. (The human body, all the little quirks and ticks--it made _sense_ to him. There was a beauty to it, perhaps even the same kind that Jim found in mathematics.)  
  
That didn't make it any less intimidating when he walked into the Great Hall of St. Bart's for Student Orientation. It was certainly... _great_ , John mused, looking at the ornate ceiling hanging untouchably over him, the sun filled windows, the almost golden glow that filled the expansive room. John's arrived well before the set starting time due to his nerves about being late and he picks a spot next to a bloke so skinny it seems like a strong wind could knock him over. He turns to look at John, his big round glasses dominating his thin face.  
  
"Hi!" he says brightly. "Early too? I'm so excited, I couldn't get any sleep last night."  
  
"I'm more nervous than excited," John confesses.  
  
The boy laughs. "Oh, now, there's nothing to be worried about. They're here to teach us! It's their jobs, we're new, they can't possibly expect us to know everything already. It's all going to be _great_." He pauses then hold out his hand. "I'm Mike. Mike Stamford."  
  
"John Watson," he says, and Mike shakes his hand in a vigorous but unmistakably friendly fashion. Mike, John decides, is the most aggressively cheerful person he has ever met.  
  
"Ah, it's good to meet new people here, I don't know anyone but Olivia--she's my girlfriend--and she isn't here yet. We haven't been together long but she's wonderful," Mike tells him as a side note. "Terribly funny, last time we went out I laughed so much I was in tears."  
  
John knows this is something of a social cue to share an aside about his own significant other but he hesitates, fumbles, just says "I don't know anyone either." He smiles. "Though I mean, I suppose I officially know _you_ now. So that's good."  
  
"One down, an entire class left to go," Mike jokes then leans back. "Oh, it's good to be here. I've been interested in medicine since I was a wee one. Were you?"  
  
_I decided to do this when I had a vision of digging my hands into someone's guts_ , John doesn't say.  
  
"No, not anything like that. It just kind of dawned on me this year. I hope I'm right about it but so far so good, I've enjoyed the books at least."  
  
"Mmm, yes, some pretty good reads in there weren't there. I was surprised, I had assumed it would all put me to sleep. I want to study medicine, see," he confesses, "but I'm afraid I rather hate the "studying" part. It's horrible but I tend to avoid and procrastinate as much as possible."  
  
"I actually like it," John offers in return. "I got into the habit of it in Secondary School and it's stuck." It also helps that the reason for those library study sessions is still living with him.  
  
They chat some more as people start filing in, the number of people that surround them growing as the deadline ticks closer, Mike pointing out Olivia and waving at her across the room, and then finally they're starting, getting the basics of information that they'll need for life at St. Bart's.


	14. a very well tailored person suit

Before the week is out John knows he's made the best choice. He feels comfortable and _interested_ , nothing like last year where he kept finding himself wondering why he was even in school at all. He's prepared himself incredibly well on the subject material and it makes him feel--god help him, it makes him feel _smart_. Like he is _good_ at this; it's something he  _knows_. He's quickly becoming a favorite among the teachers and a life size poster of human anatomy is up on the wall next to Jim's equations.  
  
"Me and a bunch of mates are meeting up, celebrating first week of uni," Mike says to him on friday. They've been talking in the classes they share. "You should come."  
  
John is unprepared for the invitation and is momentarily taken aback. Someone wants him to come hang out? He's not used to such a thing anymore. It feels like it's been a lifetime since anyone but Jim wanted his company, it feels like he's entirely forgotten how to socialize.  
  
"Oh come on," Mike cajoles, bumping his shoulder when John doesn't immediately respond. "It's the weekend, skip your studying for once. We'd love to have you."  
  
"Sure!" John says, a little too forcefully. "I mean, sure. Yeah. Sounds good, thanks."  
  
When he gets home Jim is still out so he leaves a note, including the address of the pub. He kind of wishes he could have some reassurance before he goes out, is feeling unaccountably uncertain and needy and wants these people to like him so badly it shocks him. Perhaps he just wants everything to be going perfectly on all levels: Professionally, romantically, socially.  
  
He arrives at the pub, nervous, and after a few seconds of searching he spots Mike sitting with Olivia and a few other people at a small table.  
  
"John!" Mike waves him towards the empty chair next to himself and starts introducing him around. "Everybody, John. John, this is Mary, Terence, Corey, Josh, and Leticia."  
  
Mary, a small woman with an air of great calm, is sitting closest to his right and she puts out a hand. "Lovely to meet you."  
  
John takes it. "Same. Thanks for having me."  
  
She laughs, waves away his words. "Oh, Mike has a tendency to make friends everywhere and when he brings them around we usually like them." She motions to the empty space on the table in front of him. Everyone else is already sipping from one kind of a drink or another. "What are you having?"  
  
John chooses a beer from the bar at random and imbibes carefully as the conversation starts flowing more and more easily, though John still feels quite rusty at this whole "socializing" thing. He's not all that used to drinking either, never had mates to go down to the pub with and neither he nor Jim have ever had much of a desire to keep any in their flat.  
  
He starts talking primarily to Mary; it turns out she knows Mike from Secondary and is studying to be a history teacher.  
  
"For little ones, I think," she tells him. "I like kids. Or at least I _think_ I like kids, I haven't yet had to be in charge of a classroom full of them. In reality it may drive me mad."  
  
When John is almost done with his second pint, she excuses herself to the ladies room and Mike leans over, grinning.  
  
"I knew you two would get along," he says. "A good match."  
  
John blinks, surprised and a bit tipsy. "A--ah, I'm sorry?" Does Mike mean what John thinks he does?  
  
"The two of you." Mike motions between John and Mary's empty seat. "She's not seeing anyone right now."  
  
Oh dear.  
  
" _I_ am."  
  
Now it's Mike whose surprised. "You didn't bring her?" He looks around, as if a girlfriend may suddenly materialize.  
  
John hesitates again then decides fuck it, the reaction he gets is the one he gets. If it means losing his newfound social acceptance then so be it.  
  
"No, _he_ still hadn't gotten home by the time I left."  
  
John watches Mike mouth the word "he" to himself for a second then, "Oh! _Oh_. Um. You live together? You didn't say."

"I, ah." John shrugs. "Yeah. We've been together since Secondary school."  
  
Mike shakes his head. "I can't imagine that. My longest relationship was seven whole months."  
  
Beside John, Mary has returned and as she takes her seat he can't help but scoot a little, putting an infentismal amount of extra space between their chairs. (While he's not interested, Mary seems like a very nice person and it would be a shame if she got killed.) She notices but doesn't seem offended.  
  
"I washed my hands," she jokes.  
  
John's cheeks heat a bit, embarrassed. "Oh, no, I was just, um..."  
  
"We were just talking about how John here's been in a relationship _forever_ ," Mike puts in, saving him. He motions with his drink. "You should bring him next time."  
  
Next time.  
  
No one is angry, no is laughing or saying " _faggot_ ", instead there's an invitation extended not just for another get together but for his boyfriend as well. John can't help the ridiculous grin that stretches over his face, feels himself finally fully relax.  
  
"He's not much one for pubs but yeah, I'll ask him."

"I think," Jim says slowly, like he's trying out each word, "I'm going to be a maths professor."  
  
It was still early in the morning on a weekend, breakfast over and neither of them really at work at the moment, John doing a bit of extra-curricular reading on the sofa and Jim doing who knew what with the computer.  
  
"Oh?" John looked up. "Is that...is that wise?"  
  
Jim slumped visibly in his chair. "I don't know. But I think it's what I want."  
  
John doesn't like this idea, thinks it'll be too painful. And what if--what if it happens all over again, what if people try to get Jim medicated? (Jim may not go around throwing knives at people like his mother, but still.) He starts to say this when Jim jumps ahead.  
  
"I'll just quit. Don't worry. I told you. That is never, ever happening to me, no matter what."  
  
John can't help but worry about it all anyway, especially when a few days later he catches Jim doing something rather odd in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting his facial expressions and body postures. John asks him what the hell he's doing, though he thinks he already has a pretty good idea and yep--  
  
"Practicing normality," Jim tells him. His voice sounds wrong.  
  
John can help the way his face twists, the way he has to move up close behind Jim and lock his arms around Jim's middle, burying his face in the other boy's neck.  
  
"Please don't," he says, voice muffled.  
  
Jim sighs, says gently, "I have to be able to work with people no matter what I do, John. I have to be able to interact with them."  
  
He hates that it's true. People don't really... _get_ Jim, a lot of the time, find him off-putting. John honestly doesn't know why.  
  
"I won't be like that at home," Jim reassures him, placing his hands over John's. "I promise," and John nods his acceptance.  
  


 

After turning down dozens of invitations to what has become a weekly gathering of John, Mike, and the others at the pub, Jim finally accepts.  
  
"I think I should go," he says, and waggles his fingers. "Test my _skills_."  
  
John doesn't really mind that Jim is essentially using his friends as test subjects, he's more concerned with being pleased that he'll get to have all the people he likes in one place.  
  
"Wonderful to meet you," Mike says cheerfully, moving to shake Jim's hand when they arrive.  
  
"Yeah, we were starting to think you were always stuck in some mad scientist laboratory or something," Olivia jokes. "Good to see you out of your lair."  
  
They laugh, room is made and when they sit next to each other, John can't help the way he shifts a foot to tangle it around one of of Jim's under the table, can't help the way he smiles.  
  
John introduces him specifically to Mary, mentions that they're both interested in teaching. When he makes eye contact with her, a look flashes over Jim's face like he wants to laugh, then it's gone and he's greeting her properly. They seem to be getting on well and John both likes it and doesn't at the same time--he's glad to see them interacting so pleasantly, but at the same time it stabs at him with tiny pinpricks. No one else can tell but John can see the way Jim is modulating himself, the way his voice is controlled, the way his hands aren't punctuating his words and how he doesn't fidget in his chair. The way his expressions are muted. Jim's even got a beer in front of him, and he doesn't even like drinking, says it messes with his head.  
  
It's all a bit horrible. John doesn't want Jim to be a professor, doesn't want him to ever have _any_ career period if it means this.  
  
John drinks more than he's used to that night and when they get home he plasters himself to Jim. He has all these damn _feelings_ that he can't articulate and when he tries what comes out is "It was like putting a muzzle on a wolf," which sounds pretty odd. Regardless, he trusts Jim to know what he means.  
  
"Please," he begs, "please be more yourself next time. You can be. Please."  
  
Jim runs soothing hands along his back, murmers, "All right, all right. I'm sorry, darling."  
  
"Please."  
  
"Shhh, it's okay, I'll do that. It's all fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before season three came out. Since then I've decided to remove Mary from here and replace her with an OC so that she can show up later in the story. So, you know, when we get to that, just pretend that this was some random person, not Mary.


	15. It's hard to be religious when certain people are never incinerated by bolts of lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with the off-screen non-con incident, if anyone wants to avoid that you can start reading again after the big line in the middle of the page.

Jim doesn't come to many other outings but when he does he starts acting more naturally. Despite this, he and Mary continue to get along like a house on fire when they do talk. It probably has a lot to do with the ocean of serenity that she seems to have, incredibly accepting of a lot of things.  
  
("She's almost as agreeable as you," Jim grins, "But for very different reasons."  
  
Unfortunately no one tells John one of these reasons which leads to The Brownie Incident in which apparently everyone except him knew that they were a bit magic based on the facts that 1) they were university students and 2) Mary made them, and she was apparently very serious about her weed. John had three, became enamored with the texture of an armchair, lost his shoes, and didn't know where he was for two hours. Despite this he was still rather happy about all of it at the time and felt particularly triumphant when he finally found his flat. It wasn't an experience he needed to repeat, but it _was_ a bit of a funny adventure in retrospect.)  
  
Things are going fine, probably a little _too_ fine, and the peace is interrupted partway through second term. Jim has been a teaching assistant for one of his math professors all year and suddenly it all goes violently wrong.  
  
Jim storms into their flat with the force of a tornado, slamming the door and throwing his satchel, pure rage vibrating through his body. John looks up from the sofa, blinking in surprise and concern.  
  
"What--?"  
  
Ignoring him, Jim charges straight to the kitchen. John follows, finds him going through the cabinet furthest from the refrigerator, the one that holds the most volatile of the explosive substances that Jim has such a fondness for. John doesn't approach.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
"He's going to die," Jim snarls in response. " _Die_."  
  
Well. Okay. "Who is?"  
  
Jim stops what he's doing to let out a rage filled roar and whirls on him, starts ranting out the whole story, of how he'd been distracted, how the professor had suddenly crowded him up against the desk, saying things like how he knew they wanted each other, trying to put his hand under Jim's clothes, how Jim had kicked him in the bollocks and gotten away.  
  
And Jim is saying, "Why didn't I see it coming, I knew he-- _why didn't I see it_ \--" but John can't really care about that part. All he can feel is anger, rage, his blood absolutely volcanic in his veins and he must have blacked out a bit from it because the next thing he knows he's on the floor with Jim holding him down, sitting on him, trying to calm him and keep from going straight out the door to kill the professor.  
  
"It's going to be okay, I'm going to fix it John, I'm going to fix it--"  
  
It's not quite getting through to John--he's saying things himself, things that should be shocking, saying how he's going to cut off every finger that man laid on Jim and then his hands, cut out his eyes, remove the fucker's cock and balls and make him choke to death on them. How dare he, how dare he look and touch and how dare _anyone_ , Jim is for John and no one else. John isn't as demonstrably possessive the way Jim is, but the depth of it is the same.  
  
Finally, finally, he starts to comprehend the the things Jim is telling him, starts getting more control over himself.

"Leave it me, darling," Jim assures him, touching his face. "As fun as your way would be, it would get you caught."  
  
It should be disturbing, the way they're both in such ready agreement on simply going out and murdering someone. It isn't. John doesn't fight the things that are wrong here, he can't see a reason to. What this man has done...he's signed his own death warrant and that's all there is to it.  
  
Jim goes out that night. John paces the flat and makes innumerable cups of tea, to agitated to stop moving for more than a few seconds.  
  
Jim returns at something like four in the morning and John grabs at him, takes him to bed and splays him out on the sheets, lays claim to every single bit of him as best he can before taking Jim into himself, riding him like it's the last time they'll ever be able to do this. Now it's Jim that's the reassuring one, lacing their fingers together so John doesn't topple over from the desperate drive of his movements, telling him "yours, yours". Jim is his, this is all his.  
  
At last he falls forward exhausted against Jim's chest, covers him and doesn't unseat himself, feels drained from more than just his orgasm. Jim pets his hair, runs a hand over his side, his back, and John closes his eyes.  
  


* * *

****  
  
  
When the police come calling the next day, John is utterly unsurprised and a lot more prepared than he thought he'd be.  
  
It's Jim that answers the door, small and timid and nervous, letting them intimidate their way into the flat. The first thing they notice of course is John, standing in the room in his sleep pants and nothing else, looking more than a bit well shagged. He lets his own nerves show through, offers tea and a seat on the couch to the two male middle aged officers.  
  
They refuse of course, getting straight to the point of why they're here: Professor Daniel Abernand died this morning, was incinerated when he turned the key in the ignition of his car and the entire vehicle exploded. It's possible that it could be a freak accident, but they need to investigate any chance of foul play. They want to know what Jim's relationship was like with the professor, how he related to others, did he have any enemies.  
  
"Um, well," Jim flounders, "he and Professor Housten have a long standing feud-thing, opposing theories and all that but I mean, I don't think they'd _kill_ each other over it. I have no idea who would hate him that much, not anyone at the school I don't think."  
  
"Where were you last night?"  
  
"He was here. All night," John rushes to say, then feels himself flush at the unintended innuendo that implies.  
  
"And you are...?"  
  
"A friend," Jim says lamely, wrapping his arms around himself defensively and it's easy for the officers to see straight through the lie. That's okay, they're supposed to. That's how they play their parts: Jim puts on a total act while John allows his normal emotions to show through and be misinterpreted by others. It also serves as a slight distraction from the point. He can already see the officers mentally dismissing the two of them as suspects.  
  
There are a few more questions, a few more fumbled answers from Jim and then they're gone. John waits a moment then asks "Incinerated?"  
  
Jim's eyes are dark, not matching his expression as he shrugs innocently. "Apparently. The engine must have been faulty."

It's finally ruled as an accident: The forensics team couldn't find anything that wasn't supposed to be there, no evidence of foul play.

It occurs to John that perhaps he should be worried about himself, about his soul: He's been party to three murders now, and he doesn't care about any of them. Still feels like they were the right things to do and can't manage any regret or guilt. The 'small' things like when Jim 'appropriates' something or the big ones like murder---the tiny voice of reason, the one that tried to tell him how wrong everything is utterly silent.

Even when Jim makes a remark about how oh look, suddenly a teaching position is open, all John can think is yep, that's Jim: Plans within plans. Opportunities.

The school is scrambling to find a replacement and in the mean time there's a substitute teacher that's essentially completely reliant on Jim. He can't be a teacher himself now, obviously, it'll be at least another two years before he could even apply to officially run the classes but he's showing off, demonstrating to them how skilled he would be at the job, making sure the staff is aware of him and what he can do. John thinks it likely that when Jim graduates the school will probably hire him in some capacity, they have to.

John is more concerned about what their living situation will be: They've been able to get by on funding, but when Jim graduates his will stop and being a professor doesn't exactly have great pay. It's not that John's too lazy to get a job, it's that he's worried he won't be able to snag one. None of the people he spoke to when he was first trying ever said yes to hiring him, despite the positive reception he got when speaking to them in person. What if he can't pull his own weight?

Still, that's years away and in the meantime he has to deal with things like Jim blowing up the oven (John had heard a BOOM and then "It's fine! It's fine! Nobody panic, everything is under control!") and then setting the stove top on fire when he tried to use it despite the damage. (This is why they have multiple fire extinguishers in the kitchen.)

Life goes on and on and despite the fact that John knows Jim has a pair of white sneakers that he keeps in pristine condition in the back of the closet, the three deaths are never brought up, never treated as important. That's fine with John. They both know what happened and how they feel about it, so why talk about it? There's no reason.


	16. Finger cut-off, ten thousand fist-punchings, whoever lies has to swallow thousand needles.

Jim's illegal activities wind up landing an unexpected blow to their relationship and, because they're them which apparently means they can't do _anything_ normally, it's not in the way that one would traditionally expect.  
  
Because, as it turns out, while Jim is more than happy to share the results of his ventures with John, he doesn't want him to have any part of the actual proceedings. John is more than a little hurt by this as it's the first time that Jim has tried to shut John out of any part of his life and, honestly, feels more than a little cheated. Jim gets to go do exciting things, but not John?  
  
"I'm pretty sure that the army will be more than just a bit interesting, John."  
  
John ignores the undercurrent of bitterness and fear in Jim's words to focus on the fact that that isn't unti _later_. And--"Oh please. It's not like there's a war on."  
  
"No, but there's always someone trying to start one."  
  
John glares. "That's not what I mean and you know it. Why can't I be a part of things? I can handle myself, I--"  
  
"I know you can," Jim hurries to reassure him. "It's not that I doubt you, nothing like that."  
  
"So you just don't want me to be a part of it."  
  
Jim hesitates because the answer is clearly _yes_ and John is so upset he can't even continue the conversation, just storms off to the bedroom and locks the door. Jim could have it open right quick John knows, so it's more the significance of the gesture than anything, physically shutting him out the same way Jim is doing to him. But Jim doesn't try, just speaks through the door and to John, it's not the way the words are muffled by the barrier that keeps them from making sense to him. Things like "I don't want you to see that, see _me_ like that" and "I don't want people to know about you" and "I don't want it to touch you" and then trying "They're just little distractions John, that's all". All it does is make John more curious: What the hell is Jim _doing_?  
  
John doesn't respond and doesn't unlock the door until he comes out the next morning out of necessity.  
  
  
Even though the initial row is over, the strain remains. John watches as Jim stays in for two weeks, then three, random `blow ups exploding between them (the trash? Really? They're going to argue about the trash? Fucking ridiculous.) before in the fourth week John breaks, yells " _Why_?" and there is silence.  
  
"When you come back," Jim finally says. "When you come back from service I'll bring you along every single time. I promise."  
  
" _Why wait_?"  
  
"You'll have seen things. You'll understand better. Skills---there are things---" Jim stops, starts. "I _promise_."  
  
It's...not a real explanation, not a full solution and once again just makes John wonder all the more, but it serves enough to mend the gap.  
  
Well. Mostly. When Jim tells him that he doesn't have to take any attention way from his studies and new internship in order to waste himself on something so "ordinary" as a part time job, John is, for the first time, decidedly _not_ charmed by the way Jim has everything covered. Instead of being proud he just feels coddled and kept. He tries to push the feeling away and holds on tightly to Jim's promise. Jim's never broken one, after all.

 

Jim has been stabbed and right now, that promise is not very comforting.  
  
And okay, okay it's not serious, the doctorly part of John can recognize that it's just a flesh wound, that the knife must have been a small simple switchblade and hasn't hit anything life threatening in Jim's thigh, isn't deep enough to cause permanent damage. That does not change the fact that somebody went at Jim, with a _weapon_ no less, and John wasn't there to protect him.  
  
He's got Jim laid out on the sofa trying to tend to things, trying to asses how much worse it's been made by the way Jim _walked home covered in blood_ before falling through their doorway and bleeding on the floor. A trail of red leads to the sofa that's now covered in sticky smears.  
  
"I'm fine," Jim insists, "I'm fine." He smiles crookedly, limply motions to the apparent bucket's worth of blood that covers his shirt and jacket. "You should see the other guy," and John would indeed very much like to see the other guy.  
  
In pieces.  
  
But now is not the time for John's anger. Right now he has to focus.  
  
John can fix the damage, true, but it shouldn't have been allowed to happen in the first place. He's stopped the bleeding, managed to disinfect things. Despite the small size of the wound he still wants to sew it up, is frustrated that they don't have the tools on hand to immediately do so. He'll have to wait until morning for a store to open so he can buy the materials. Jim, on the other hand, isn't bothered by this, is instead completely confident in John's ability to handle the entire matter. He raises a hand up towards John that falls limply down before making contact, his strength sapped by the ordeal, his eyes fixed on John's worried face.  
  
"You take such good care of me," and there is so much love, so much pure adoration focused so squarely on John that it's like experiencing an actual impact and he can't breath for a second from the force of it. Maybe there's a sort of slight bright side to Jim getting stabbed. John knows Jim loves him, knows it like grass is green, but it's still wonderful to be reminded of the sheer power of it, especially given the way Jim has blocked off this part of their lives. "You take care of me. That's your weight, John. You pull me up. You're so strong, do so much for me and you don't even know it."  
  
John huffs, flustered and frustrated. "I should have been there. I could have stopped it."  
  
"And what if _you_ had been the one hurt? No. No. No." Jim shakes his head as vigorously as is possible given his laid out position and exaughstion. "No, _no_ that can't be allowed. It's--it's _my_ risk, I'm not putting you in front of that. I can't, I'm sorry, I can't."  
  
"What if you hadn't made it home?"  
  
"John." His voice is soft. "I will always get back to you. Even if my throat was cut I would do it. I would--I would find a way. I." He pauses, seeming to be at a loss for words and energy, then simply says " _You_ ," which shouldn't be anything but John manages to find a world of meaning in it.  
  
Jim eventually drifts off and the sun rises; shops open and John finds what he needs. He does it quickly enough but for John it takes far too long, fretting every minute that he's gone. He finds a cane as well, a simple metal affair with four short stubby legs at the bottom; Jim's not going to be able to put his full weight on that leg for a while. Jim is still sleeping when he gets back and John doesn't wake him up as he does the stitches. Finally, he's certain of the situation being under control, and now, _now_...  
  
_Now_ he can let himself go, let the rage wash over him and before he knows it he's in the bedroom attacking the mannequin that Jim uses to help keep the next day's clothes unwrinkled.  
  
(Jim had decided to finally do something about his desire for finer garments, had broken into a shop, stolen a number of suits and then taken a mannequin as well just for the hell of it. He'd brought it home and named it Gaylord. John had found it positively hilarious.) 

He punches, wrenches, stomps, cracking and smashing the tough plastic, pretends it's the man who hurt Jim. The act is so futile that it just serves to fan his rage higher and he doesn't know what happened but there are two holes in the wall and the bedside lamp has been trashed, ceramic and glass shards joining the decimated plastic on the floor. It looks also like he tried to do something to the bed. He's not entirely sure what, it doesn't appear to have been very successful. Apparently it's made of sturdier stuff than previously expected. Just as well, he's suddenly too tired to stand up anymore and he falls face down across the mattress. 

His energy may be spent but the anger is still there, simmering. He can't stop thinking _What if, what if_ :  
  
What if the knife had hit something vital?  
  
What if Jim hadn't made it home?  
  
What if the wound had bled too much and he'd needed a transfusion?  
  
_What if there was no more Jim?_  
  
John can't handle it.  
  
Jim was in danger and John hadn't been there, hadn't protected him. Hell, hadn't been _allowed_ to protect him. They're supposed to keep each other safe, it's an integral part of what they do for each other, or so John had thought. It's absolutely maddening and if he won't be allowed to go with, then the only thing he can think of is trying to forbid Jim from ever going out again.  
  
Like _that's_ a good idea. Like it would even work.  
  
Despite his racing thoughts he passes out anyway, just like that. He can confront Jim when they're both more well rested.  
  
  
  
When they both finally wake, John feeling recharged but no less helplessly scared and upset, Jim seems more concerned with the injuries John has done to himself during his blind rage than his own leg.  
  
"Oh," Jim says reaching out, "oh darling, look at your hands."  
  
John doesn't go to him. "Look at your leg," he responds.  
  
Jim pauses a moment then laughs. "We're a right pair aren't we."  
  
John can't be amused. Instead he just stares steadily at his boyfriend and Jim sighs.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, and John knows it's genuine but that doesn't do anything to sooth him.  
  
"This can't happen again," John tells him firmly, frayed edges of desperation around his words. "I don't--I don't know what---this just, it can't happen again. You said it was 'your' risk. That's not true, Jim. It's _our_ risk. We're in this together and if something happened to you, if--if I were to lose you..." John swallows, searches for words that aren't understatements, fails. "Well. I don't know what I would do, exactly. I just know it wouldn't be good." His shoulders droop helplessly. "I can't lose you. Not ever."  
  
This time when Jim reaches for him John reaches back, arms going around each other and holding tightly, his head resting on Jim's shoulder.  
  
"Please, please don't do this anymore," John begs quietly.  
  
There's a long silence and John knows he's not going to get his wish.  
  
"I need to," Jim finally says gently. "I'm sorry but I need this the way you need the military. I can't--I'll be more careful. I'll change things. I'll use more go-betweens or something, better ones. This _won't_ happen again John, I'll keep myself out of harms way. I promise."  
  
More promises. John is starting to hate them. He closes his eyes and buries his face against Jim's neck, resigned.  
  
At least he has the satisfaction of knowing that as long as Jim is hobbled by the cane he can't go running around mucking about. It's temporary, but it's something.


	17. To infinity, and beyond!

Everything is packed and tomorrow John leaves for bootcamp. The amounts of trepidation and fear he's experiencing are unexpected, but more than anything, he's excited.  
  
Jim...not so much.  
  
He's been making John feel like the center of the universe for months now, holding to all his promises and even pushing aside other more important commitments in favor of spending his time on John.  
  
("They're not more important, John. They're not about you.")  
  
And now, in the living room, Jim is standing them so they're face to face, something hidden in his clenched fist, his expression intently serious. He grasps John's left hand and holds it out; with his other he reveals the objects: Two gold rings.  
  
John feels his heart start to race. The way they are, the things that have happened, this sort of symbolism shouldn't be important. It is anyway, to a level that he never would have expected. He suddenly feels more comfortable with the request he wants to make but hasn't had the courage to yet, hasn't found the right time; the reason he stole that scalpel.  
  
Jim doesn't make a speech just says "I do."  
  
John manages to say the same and the rings are slid into fingers. He brings his hand up to look more closely at the simple band: It's very plain save for the simple engraving of an infinity symbol. He feels choked up and utterly ridiculous, thinks of Jim's words from when they were still in his room at his mother's.  
  
"There," Jim says with an air of triumph. "Now when you gone everyone single person who sees you will know."  
  
"And people here, they'll all know too." John can't stop grinning like an absolute fool and he leans in to kiss Jim.  
  
(He doesn't bother questioning where the rings came from. He's learned not to ask.) 

By the time he's got them on the couch, him pretty much sitting on top of Jim, he manages to sort out his thoughts and he pulls away for a moment. Jim looks at him expectantly, probably already knows what John's been thinking of. Good. John moves his hand to a spot right next to Jim's groin, whispers what he wants.

Jim's response is a rather enthusiastic agreement and they move to the bedroom, John's hands completely steady as he gets out the scalpel and Jim lays down naked on their bed. John can feel those dark eyes on him, bright and hot as he traces the spot he's going to mark with his name and then he's doing it, cutting into smooth flesh just deep enough to permanently scar. He can hear the way Jim's breath catches; his does as well.  
  
When he's done he can't help it: Jim's blood is _right there_ so he leans down, licks and lavs, cleaning the blood away, tasting.  
  
"Oh fuck, oh _hell_ darling---"  
  
And Jim's dick is right there as well, definitely interested, so John transfers his attentions there, his lips still tinged with red, smearing more than one fluid about and initiating what's bound to be the first round of as many as they can before John leaves.  
  
Indeed, John doesn't get much rest that night and when he finally wakes up to prepare for his departure he finds his hands bound to the headboard and Jim squarely on top of him.  
  
It's okay. He was kind of expecting this, so he simply sighs.  
  
"Jim."  
  
"No."  
  
" _Jim_. You have to."  
  
" _No_! No. I could keep you, you know."  
  
John starts to nod, because yes, he does know, but Jim is going on, leaning up to loom large and look John dead in the eye, their faces inches apart.  
  
"I could keep you, fake your death and everyone would believe it. You would stay tied up right here and no one would every know. You'd be mine forever and ever and ever and you wouldn't see anyone else, wouldn't need to. I could _make_ you want to stay and you'd be here just for me. _Safe_."  
  
"You could," John acknowledges. It makes Jim wilt.  
  
"I could keep you in this room for the rest of your life...but you wouldn't be you. In the end you'd just be--be someone who looked like you." He puts his head down on John's chest, runs desperate hand over John's torso, over his hip. Whispers, defeated, "You wouldn't be you anymore."  
  
"I'm so sorry," John tells him softly. "I really am."  
  
"I know. I know, and it's not okay, it's just...god, we're the same in it. I wish we weren't but then who would we be?" Then, "Oh my god you're going to be sodding _shot at_ , oh fuck," and Jim is crying against his skin and nothing John says is worth a damn for assurances, not even when he promises not to get shot no matter what.  
  
Jim's eyes are dry by the time he leaves but rings on their fingers or not, walking away from his husband is still the hardest thing John's ever done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another mistake here: John wouldn't be leaving for "bootcamp". Rather, he'd be leaving for Royal Military Academy Sandhurst where I decided he would receive All The Awards and things would work a little differently.


	18. brave Sir Robin turned about, and gallantly he chickened out

The inscription on the back of the phone is sweet and simple:  
  
 _Darling,  
  
Miss you  
  
XOXOXOXOXOXOXO_  
  
An infinity symbol matching the one on John’s ring curves elegantly beneath the words.  
  
He can’t make sense of it.  
  
It had been waiting for him when he’d finally returned home for the last time, no longer fit to be a soldier or a surgeon. He’d lost everything he’d spent so long working for but that didn’t matter, not really, not when losing it all meant returning to Jim for good, not when he was still the most loved person to ever live.  
  
Turns out he’s lost that too.  
  
He doesn’t know how, has no explanation, no Jim there to welcome him back or say he was leaving, not even a bloody note. Just a slim black ridiculously expensive phone with the most confusing, contradictory words he’s ever beheld.   
  
_Miss you._  
  
It doesn’t make sense; Jim had left him, didn’t love him anymore, didn’t even think he was worth the time to tell him _why_ \---  
  
 _Miss you._  
  
Then why the fuck had he left? Jim didn’t do things without reason and you didn’t tell people you missed them when you didn’t love them anymore. It was senseless, unfair and cruel in a way that Jim had never been to him, no matter how angry they’d gotten with each other Jim had never, ever, tried to hurt him--  
  
But Jim doesn’t love him anymore. He’s not important or special anymore, he’s just another ordinary, common drone and Jim hadn’t ever had a problem hurting those people. That’s all he is now. One of _those_ people. Ordinary, worthless and worst of all, _boring_.  
  
Or maybe not. Maybe it’s a good thing, maybe, just maybe, it’s that Jim is furious with him, punishing him for breaking his promise, for getting shot and nearly dying and is giving him a glimpse of what it would be like for him if John hadn’t survived. Maybe he’ll come back at any moment, full of apologies and love and _“God darling, I missed you so much”_ and--  
  
No. That’s not going to happen.   
  
That’s never going to happen because Carl Powers’ shoes are missing from the back of their bedroom closet and John’s leg gives out from under him with a burst of blinding pain and he just sits there on his arse, like the idiot he must be, and goes blank for a while.


	19. boy, you got me lookin so crazy right now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Kadorienne and heshineslikeglass for beta-ing and general nudging in this chapter. Would have taken EVEN LONGER than I did without that and would have been incredibly messy, blahrg.

It had taken some time for John to move from the floor, to get himself up if not together. It had been difficult, his leg strangely painful and stiff, but he’d managed it because of the stupid little phone inscription.  
  
_Miss you._  
  
Yes, Jim had left and yes, he’d taken the most important things with him, but those words...maybe he was uncertain. Maybe if John just got up and _found_ him, face to face, he would come back. His world had already been reduced to ashes, trying to salvage what he could from the flames couldn’t possibly get him burned any worse.  
  
Going to look for him at the university should have been a good bet; even if Jim wasn’t there, they’d at least have some way to contact him. John had been there enough times in the past, no one would think it strange for him to show up looking for his husband, right?  
  
Mistake. Such a mistake.  
  
“Professor Doyle hasn’t worked here for about a year.” The receptionist’s fake, polite expression cracks a little as John stares at her, unable to process this. He blinks, shakes his head and shuffles forward, leaning over the desk. He has to impress the urgency of the situation on her, get her to check the staff listing; how new to the job could she possibly be?  
  
“That can’t be right, he--he’s worked here for over ten years, he has to be here.”  
  
“Sir, I--”

  
“No.” he interrupts harshly, “I _know_ he’s still here, now look him up and tell me where. I’m his husband, you have to.”  
  
“First of all sir, I don’t _have_ to do anything,” she informs him. Her expression becomes stony, her tone sharp. ”But I _will_ tell you he doesn’t work here anymore. ‘As his husband’ wouldn’t you know that?”  
  
The words cut straight through him, slice past any restraint he has,, because yes, John _should_ know that, he should know exactly what’s going on with Jim at all times, and John gets a little too insistent, a little too loud, a little too aggressive. It only gets him thrown out on the kurb.  
  
He does learn one important thing: Jim hadn’t been fired. He’d simply quit. And not told John a thing about it.  
  
No, he’d done more than not mention it--he’d deliberately hidden it.  
  
Jim had promised to quit if it got too much, if anything happened, had promised he’d never let it be a way for the normal world to get its hooks into him. There aren’t any signs of it but--hell, maybe Jim had lied about that too, but if things had gotten that bad why not tell John, why hide it, why not let him _help_ \---  
  
John grits his teeth against the throbbing ache in his leg and searches on his stupidly fancy new phone, looking for any professors named Doyle at British universities, only to find nothing. Jim didn’t transfer somewhere, he just...left academia, full stop. Like his mother.  
  
Oh, John is stupid. He is so very stupid, he’d panicked so badly he hadn’t thought to reach out to her, when it should have been the very first thing he did.

Her phone number is just as defunct as Jim’s.  
  
No matter, he tells himself, he’ll just go straight away and see her in person; she’ll hug him and let him cry on her shoulder if he needs to, she’ll know what’s happening, she’ll tell him what needs to be done. She loves him just as much as she does Jim, she’ll fix this.  
  
(This turns out to be mistake number two. Or three, rather. Thinking it couldn’t get any worse was clearly the first.)  
  
He pays a cabbie a ridiculous amount to take him all the way out to her home in Sussex. Time is drawn out intolerably during the drive, road laws and traffic serving to further agitate the pressure building in his already shaken mind. He explodes out of the cab, unable to contain himself any further as they pull up to the familiar home. He bangs himself on the car door in his haste, not even bothering to look around as he sprints straight for the door and starts hammering against it.  
  
It takes far too long to get a response, but finally the door opens a crack and he shoves it open the rest of the way. The teenage Indian girl on the other side gives a shriek and sprints away, shouting for her parents. John halts not far over the threshold, frozen in shock.  
  
His first thought is that he’s got the wrong house. It’s--the floor plan is the same, but that’s the only thing that matches his memories: there’s a tv, new and in the wrong place, brightly colored throws that Mam would never have bought grace furniture that she had never owned, unfamiliar artwork has taken the place of family photos, there’s even a new rug, still fresh and fluffy stretched across the floor. He can’t spot a single recognizable thing.  
  
No. No, he _knows_ this is the right address, he’d bloody lived here for a year and a half and couldn’t even guess how many times he’d visited. He’s made no mistake. This _is_ Mam’s house, except someone has scrubbed her out of it. Someone has done this, has deliberately, meticulously removed any trace of her until it’s as if she never existed here at all.  
  
As if none of them had.  
  
Renewed pain shoots through his leg, making him lurch and he reaches out blindly, holding himself up against a wall. His vision swims between overwhelmingly stark clarity and a blurry haze, bringing the strangers occupying Mam’s home in and out of focus. A man who must be the father of the girl he’d frightened stands a safe distance away, brandishing a wooden walking stick angrily while behind him, a woman speaks frantically into a mobile. He tries to focus. He needs to ask them questions, he needs to focus. He could do that with bombs going off around him for fuck’s sake, he should be able to do that here.  
  
(No part of combat had ever been as bad as this.)  
  
“I said out!” The man jabs his impromptu weapon in John’s direction for what doesn’t seem like the first time. “We don’t know you; leave my daughter alone and get out!”

John tries to stay calm, but he can’t get his breathing under control and his leg is aflame with agony. “How long have you lived here?”  
  
The man’s ire intensifies. “That’s hardly your business. We’ve called the police. Leave! Now!”  
  
John _can’t_. The wall was the only thing keeping him upright, and now he slides down against it, in too much pain to do anything else. “Just tell me how long you’ve been here, there was a woman, before you, _please_ , a woman owned thi--”  
  
The police drag him out. They have to, his leg won’t work anymore, and he sits in the back of a patrol car, trying not to cry from the pain.  
  
“I just need to know where she went,” he tells the officers.  
  
One turns back briefly to look at him. “Mate, if a woman doesn’t tell you where she’s going, it’s usually because she doesn’t want you to know.”  
  
But he has to know, he _needs_ to. He tries to impress this on them, they have to understand how important this is. They have to understand that his life has been smashed to pieces, and he’s been buried under the wreckage.  
  
He has to explain no, he’s not chasing a girlfriend, he’s married thank you--no, not his “wife”, no, not his own mother, his husband’s mother and by the way, they wouldn’t happen to be able to locate said husband, would they? He explains in the car, he explains at the station, he explains and explains until he thinks he’ll implode like one of Jim’s experiments.  
  
“So your husband’s cut and run, your mother-in-law doesn’t want you to find her, and you strong-armed your way into what you thought was her home, scaring some poor girl and her parents half to death. I’d say we understand just fine.”  
  
John grits his teeth and does not punch any of the officers.


	20. don't you think that it's boring how people talk (let's talk it out like yeaaaaaah, yeah!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to heshineslikeglass for the excruciating beta-read.

The same factors that worked in the principal’s office work again in John’s favor at the police station: His clean civilian record combined with one of outstanding military service and the image of a newly returned wounded soldier add up to a picture that buys him sympathy. It turns what was previously viewed as an act of violence into a pitiable mistake, leading them to offer help instead of punishment. It’s decided that the best form for this “help” to take is leaving him to the mercy of the mental health system--therapy

Yes. That’s clearly the solution. Talking in thirty minute increments to a complete stranger will obviously solve everything. He’d rather pick up trash off the whole A1 highway, bad leg and all.

He’s learned his lesson, he’s not about to go bursting into anymore homes. Why can’t he just be left in his lonely little apartment to rot on his sofa in peace? Going out. Seeing a stranger, someone who can’t possibly understand, no matter their qualifications. _Talking_ to them. There’s no getting out of it---Mam was a living example of just how much power mental health “services” could exert over a person’s life. If he didn’t do this, didn’t get up and spin a tale that kept them off his back, there could be very bad consequences in his future, and the last thing he needs is less control over his life. He’s miserable enough already. 

God.This is going to take energy and strength of will that he simply doesn’t have. Literal strength as well; his leg refuses to support his weight anymore, won’t allow for anything more than a pathetic hobble. The police had assumed it was a war injury flaring up and he hadn’t corrected them. It was easy to put together the timing and intensity of the damn thing, obviously his mind has decided to make his internal pain into a physical one, but it’s not until he’s going through a closet digging out Jim’s old cane that he understands the reasoning behind the manifestation’s particular form. It’s tied even more directly to Jim than he’s first realized--Jim is not only the cause of the unreal sensation, but he’s the reason for the placement as well: The pain radiates out through the whole limb at times, but the central point is in exactly the same place that Jim was stabbed all those years ago. 

Maybe it would be romantic if it wasn’t so stupid. 

And maybe Jim was right to leave. He’s too brilliant, too amazing to be constantly weighed down by someone this stupid, someone this _weak_. He shouldn’t have to deal with John. No one should. 

He’s run from it for years but in the end his family was right. Finally, just as John had _finally_ stopped believing it---he’d flown back feeling so goddamn proud of himself, so accomplished and _complete_ \---

And now, lying alone on a sofa, he has to face the reality that he’s a discarded failure that can’t even get crying right.

As anyone could have predicted, he misses his first appointment. 

He makes it to the second one, helped along by a voicemail left by his assigned therapist. It strikes enough fear in him to get him going, but not much more than that.

It takes the entirety of his resources just to get himself up, meaning that his plans for seeming like he has his act together fall apart. Showering and shaving takes too much effort; instead he simply sprays himself down with cologne. He opts to use a bottle Jim has left behind rather than his own in the hopes that it’ll give him some semblance of a boost. The only result is him smelling nothing but _JimJimJimJim_ as he drags himself to the tube. In the train car a woman gives him her seat in the “reserved for people with disabilities” section because hey, that’s him now. He’s so pathetically grateful that it practically hurts more than his leg, which has decided to recede to a dull ache. The journey had seemed too short to justify a cab ride but now the ride stretches out, draining him more and more with each lurching stop til he’s drained to the point of not knowing how he’s going to manage getting himself to the therapist’s office, let alone get through the session itself. Sod this. He’ll take a cab back. 

As it is, he barely manages to return a perfunctory smile when the therapist, a woman named Ella Thompson, finally greets him, and by the time he plops himself down across from her, all he wants to do is lay down and die. Feeling like he’s in front of a firing squad in a brightly lit cave of beige and silvery flowers doesn’t help. Even Miss Thompson--who invites him to call her Ella--is wearing simple but professional looking pastel clothes. 

He should be keeping his body language open and attentive, should be saying something charming and friendly. John needs to gain control of this situation somehow but God he feels too worn out to manage that.

At least he’s still able to keep it from getting worse. He summarizes a modified version of the chain of events leading to him ending up in a police station and how it’s given him a real wake up call to understanding just how badly off he is, that he knows very well that this sort of help will be beneficial to him. He apologizes for missing his first appointment, says he’s grateful for her concern in leaving him a voice message. He lets her know he’s aware of what’s going on with his leg, that he’s aware of how frightening his actions must have seemed, he’s aware of what he needs to do to keep himself together, he’s aware of how the terrible war trauma must be effecting him. 

Ella takes notes the whole time, doling out words of encouragement, expressing concern and a careful lack of judgement. She has a very good poker face, John has to admit. He can’t tell how much of it she’s truly buying into.

“It’s impressive that you have such a good grasp on your own issues,” she tells him,and John bites his tongue. No it isn’t. They’re partly obvious and partly pandering; he’d have to be an idiot to not understand the situation with his leg and he only added the bit about military trauma because he knows it’s what’s expected.  
“Being so aware of what’s wrong gives you an advantage in dealing with this that most people don’t have. What do you think you can do to help yourself outside of our sessions?”

There’s nothing he can say here that isn’t clearly bullshit, so he just shrugs, tries to turn it into a joke.

”Keep calm and carry on?”

She smiles at him and John wishes he could read people as well as Jim. 

“That’s a good attitude to start with, but what concerns me the most is how you’re processing all of this. You’ve experienced a great deal of trauma, John, only to return to a situation where the rug’s been pulled out from underneath you. I think we should first focus on giving you an outlet for all that trauma, a way for you to work through things and express yourself. A healthy one, something simple that you can do from home. Do you do any art or music? Any writing?”

John huffs out a snort. “Hardly. I do a fair bit of reading, but that’s it.”

“Writing then.” She makes a soft gesture of affirmation with her pen. “Let’s start with that.”

“You think I should, what, keep a diary? Write a book to express my feelings?” He has trouble keeping a straight face, but she pays no mind to it.

“If you want, then certainly. It wouldn’t be a bad thing. But I think something more immediate and less intimidating would be the most helpful thing right now. Again--start _simple_ , ,John. Perhaps joining an internet site somewhere and creating a blog. That way there’s no pressure for it to be perfect. It would give you an anonymous way to share your thoughts and feelings as they come to you, while still giving you a connection to the world.”

A blog. She thinks he should start a _blog_ to fix everything. Good lord this is even dumber than the idea of therapy. He doesn’t even try to disguise his disbelief now and she smiles again, so horribly understanding.

“Just try it. Work on having at least one entry before our next session, how does that sound? Let yourself talk about whatever you want, anything at all, even if it’s just what you had for breakfast.”

John fails horribly at returning her smile and agrees to her utterly asinine idea. If making a stupid blog will get him out of this, he’ll do it. After repeating how glad she is that he was able to make it today, Ella gives him a few more token phrases of encouragement, and finally lets him leave.

Dragging himself out of her stifling office and into the back of a cab, all he can think of is how he’s going to have to do this _every week_ for god knows how long. Every week. Every. Week.

Later that same night when he’s back on the fucking sofa again, it occurs to him that he should probably check his bank balance. He’s spent a bit of money just on transport recently, and he has no idea how much Jim left him in their shared account. It’s the only one John has; what need had there been for them to have individual ones? 

When the automated voice reads out his balance, John nearly drops his mobile. 

That can’t be right, that’s---that’s absurd. 

Confused, he hits the number to speak with a representative. There’s no mistake, they assure him, every pound is accounted for. They even read off the last few transactions for him, one of which includes an absolutely ridiculous deposit. He asks again if they’re sure.

“Yes sir, according to our records there’s nothing out of place. The deposit was made the same day that you were made the sole holder of the account.”

With a sudden burst of crystal clarity, John hangs up on them.

That bastard.

John now has enough money that he could live on comfortably for _years_ without a job, and why? Because Jim felt guilty? Because he thought giving John a fuckton of money would somehow make things better? The phone, the money. Did he just want to make sure there was nothing John could feel slighted about, nothing he could go after Jim with? Did he think those were the sort of things John actually _cared_ about?

It goes around and around and around in his head, and that night it’s not just the unfamiliarity of sleeping on the sofa that keeps him awake all the way through to morning.


	21. I've decided what I want on my tombstone: "Loving Husband"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are suicidal or in a bad place, you probably shouldn't read this. Close the tab and reach out to someone instead. Please.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to Kadorienne for the beta read and the boost!

After a few days without sleep, he’s going stir crazy enough to feel like maybe, just maybe, going ahead and making a blog wouldn’t be a terrible idea. It would give him something to do at the very least. When he realizes that his laptop is not where he left it, a nasty suspicion starts sneaking up on him, and when he finds it---yup. Jim’s replaced this too.

No doubt it’s fully state of the art and snazzy as hell, but all John winds up discovering is just how nicely it breaks when thrown against a wall. Using his cane to smash what’s left into junk is immensely gratifying, but the feeling is short lived when he looks in the drawer again. There’s a _second_ laptop in there. Jim had anticipated what would happen and set aside two; one to break and one for actual use.

He could destroy the second one as well, but being faced with just how well Jim knows him robs the act of any satisfaction he could have gained from it. Drained, he simply takes the undamaged laptop with him as he goes to lay back down in defeat.

A few hours later he’s no more well rested, his mind going in torturous circles once again. He revisits the idea of a blog. It’s not become any less ridiculous, but it can’t exactly hurt, either. Showing a willingness to comply can only work to let him be left alone sooner. 

Jim’s already set everything up--probably thought John would only make a mess of it, he thinks sourly--but it still takes far too much effort just to open the damn thing and get online. He stares at the opening page, a google search window, and has to figure out where the start. He doesn’t know anything about “social media platforms”; he’s never had so much as a Facebook account let alone any kind of what Jim would have called an “online presence”. It’s one of the reasons he fell out of contact with all his friends from uni; he’s never seen the point of it before.

A way to be anonymous and still connect with others, Ella had said. Anonymous. Just another one of the masses. Boring, ordinary and faceless. The safest way to be; he can dimly recall Jim ranting that only a true idiot put personal details like their name or picture on the internet for all to see. 

A true idiot, eh?

In a fit of rebellion, John searches out the most popular platform there is, going through what feels like ridiculously laborious motions to set up an account. Using the laptop’s camera he takes a terribly unflattering picture of himself and sticks it up right there under the heading:

**THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

Next to his picture he adds the text: _I’m an experienced idiot recently returned from Afghanistan._

Before the last bit of snark induced momentum can leave him, he decides to go ahead and make a post, just so he can say he has. 

_Phone? Money? Fucking laptops? TOSSER!_

He hopes Jim sees it somehow, John thinks snidely, hopes it drives him into one of his flailing rants about the human race being too stupid to live and hopes Jim realizes there’s no one listening to him this time and that he winds up missing John horribly.

It makes him feel better for all of five seconds until he notices the date. Then it’s right back to being so crushed he could cry.

It’s already almost half-way through December.

John will be spending the holidays alone for the first time since he was sixteen. Even during his service he wasn’t alone. Jim and Mam had kept up their competition to see who could send him the ugliest Christmas jumper, along with cards and pictures. They even sent him ugly, burnt gingerbread men since he couldn’t be there to actually make them. 

There will be no jumpers this year. No Gingerbread Murder Houses, no silly pictures of Jim tonguing a Santa mask with “ _This is what happens when you’re not here :(_ “ written on the back. Instead he’s going to spend it the same way he’s going to spend the rest of his life: Entirely alone.

He shoves the laptop away, uncaring of how it crashes on the floor. Putting a pillow over his head isn’t enough, even burying himself _under_ the sofa wouldn’t be enough. 

He only manages his next therapy appointment on automatic: Yes, he made a blog. Look, he made a post! This clearly means he’s dealing with things admirably.

“There’s a bit of anger in your words,” Ella says.

Well no shite. 

She says more things,and he responds, he knows he does, but it’s all from far away. When he leaves, he can’t quite remember what happened. Was she impressed? Did he agree to any new ridiculous things? He’s not sure.

It doesn’t even matter. 

There’s nothing to eat at home, he hasn’t got the strength for shopping. Still, it’s nearly midnight by the time he gets around to finally ordering food online rather than having to deal with an actual person over the phone. He tried to work himself up to it only to fail, and then he’d had a horrible time of trying to find something that actually sounded appealing. Everything and nothing does, meaning he’d wound up choosing the simplest thing, a pizza with a ridiculous amount of side-orders that he’s not sure he’s ever going to eat. It just felt better to order them than not. 

He’s still not accustomed to carrying things while walking on his bad leg though, and when his order arrives, he winds up spilling most of it across the floor. He drops the undamaged food next to the mess and stares at it, a hopelessly helpless feeling overtaking him. It’s just more proof that he can’t do _anything_ right, can’t even _carry food_ without fucking it up. 

He should really clean that up. He can’t think of a compelling reason to, but it’s something that a normal person would do. (Who cares about normal?) It’s simply...he just should, that’s all. 

Except then he’s looking in the cabinet under the kitchen sink at the cleaning supplies and wondering what would happen if he drank them all. Nothing, he realizes. These are ones that Jim had designed himself, specifically to be as non-toxic as possible while still being more powerful than anything you could get at a shop. John would get very sick, certainly, probably permanently damage his body even further, but he wouldn’t actually _die_. 

That doesn’t stop him from sitting there for who knows how long, staring and wondering. It would be so---he should eat, he tells himself sternly, he’ll think better once he’s got some food in him. Only now his eyes are hot and prickling from pent up emotion and there’s a great big knot in his throat, choking him. Nibbling at what’s left of the pizza just makes him feel like he’s going to vomit and he shoves it to the side. It doesn’t even taste good. Nothing does; even his glass of water tastes like metal. 

Maybe there’s something wrong with the pipes---no, no he knows what that means, everything tasting wrong, he’s a doctor, he knows this...it’s his mind, that’s all, working in tandem with his body to turn even further against him. _Everything_ is against him.

It won’t leave him alone now that he’s finally thought about it--and how funny, suicide hadn’t done more than pop up in his thoughts when he was stuck with his parents, he’d never been serious about it. There had been too much to stay alive for, an idea that if he could just outlast, out _live_ them, then he’d have won in the end. Somehow. 

That’s no longer the case. There are no battles left to win, nothing left to do, nowhere left for his life to go. There’s nothing, the same way _he_ is nothing. This is _it_.

John can either spend the rest of his life slowly rotting or he can take his bow and leave on his own terms. And not quietly, either, he realizes. Poisoning himself won’t do, even if there weren’t so many ways it could go wrong. The best way to go is with a bang.

He needs a gun.

But how? It’s unlikely he’ll get a permit for one, at least at the moment, and it would put up all sorts of red flags with services, or at least he’s pretty sure it would. It’s not like someone is just going to _give_ him---

Oh. Oh, yes there _is_ someone who would. Someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions as long as John phrased things right, someone who would trust implicitly that letting John have one unregistered would without doubt be the right thing to do. Someone who would understand the idea of needing to be armed even as a civilian.

He needs to contact James Sholto.

It had been funny, at the time. There was Jim, Jamie (Mam), and now another James that John had come to respect in a similar way. It was steeped more in hero worship than any sort of ‘love’, true, but that hadn’t made John any less amused at the coincidence of all the most prominent people in his life being named variants of the same thing. James Sholto had been the best person John had ever served under. His leadership made John truly want to be the best officer he could be and as a result he’d given even more effort than he’d thought possible, something that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the man and gotten him some of his medals. Sholto’s forced exit from military life hadn’t changed that; in fact John was probably one of the few select people that he wouldn’t mind hearing from. 

Like most commanders, Sholto had been charged with taking a group of new recruits on what all sources said would be nothing but a training mission. However, last minute information had surfaced: The enemy, with greater numbers and experience, was waiting for them.

Sholto’s superiors had failed to listen; the information was too new, too shaky to be believed without doubt, they said. The mission would go as planned. Sholto had refused, but that hadn’t put an end to it: He was simply replaced with a more willing commander and as ordered, the mission went ahead.

Every last one of them had died.

One would think that this would have, even in a terrible way, reflected well on Sholto, putting him in the right. Instead, to try and cover the military’s embarrassment, there had been accusations, the idea pushed forth that Sholto was somehow a traitor, a coward, or both. The poor man had been left with no choice but to resign, though after seeing what fools his superiors were, he’d made it clear--to John at least--that even if he’d been rewarded for it, he wouldn’t have stayed anyway.

Given the flurry of mudslinging that Sholto had resigned under, John knew he would understand the need for a weapon. As long as he was careful with his phrasing, not exactly saying anything outright...it would work. It had to.

All he had to do was figure out how to get a message through and he’d be set. Hell, if he did it in time, he wouldn’t even have to try and make it through the holidays alone.

Finally, he had a plan of action. John wasn’t good at sitting still, doing nothing, going nowhere. It felt nice, planning this out. It gave him a sense of peace that he’d been missing since his return. A sort of calm, knowing he’d be at final rest soon.

And that it would cause a paperwork headache for Jim. That was nice too. Maybe Jim would be sorry then. Maybe he’d want John back, then. But no, he didn’t want John while he was here and alive, so death would hardly change his mind. 

That---that was alright. Would be alright.

Nothing mattered and that made it all fine.

 

 

Ella notices. Of course she does. There’s been such a sudden change in him it’s hard _not_ to notice it; knowing that none of it matters, that he’ll be gone soon enough makes everything suddenly so easy to deal with. He feels light, free.

He should thank her, really. If not for her idea about the blog, he might have kept his head burried in the sand, prolonging his misery. Seeing the date on that stupid thing helped clear the way for the realization of what he needed to do.

“Are you feeling more relaxed?”

He says yes.

“What’s changed?”

I found the solution to my final problem, he doesn’t say.

“Well.” He coughs a little, clears his throat, looking bashful. “Even if I’m not writing in my blog per se, it was a good idea. Got me on the internet. Let me get human contact without being bogged down by all the trappings, like you said.”

She looks at him carefully. “While online, have you seen the news at all?”

“Not really.”

Her eyes flick down at her notes for a moment, then to his leg, before coming back to his face. She taps her pen lightly against the notebook, as if she’s debating something.

“There’s been a lot of coverage lately about suicides. You’ve not heard about it?”

He shakes his head, and she continues, now leaning over her notes so he can’t see them. “There’s been a great deal of attention lately on people killing themselves. Mostly due to the method, but no matter their method or what their reasoning was, it’s left behind a lot of broken lives. A great deal of heartbreak.” 

For the first time she seems uncertain of herself despite her intense gaze, and John shifts uncomfortably in his chair. 

“These people couldn’t see any hope for themselves and saw death as the only solution. Dying is _not_ a solution, John. It puts an end to things, yes, but it’s a very final end to not just what I promise is temporary pain, but an end to _everything_. It robs you of any chance of happiness, destroys any joy or new possibilities the future might bring. There is _always_ hope, John. It might look hopeless right now, but you never know what will happen tomorrow or even a few minutes from now. Nothing stays bad forever, no matter how much it may seem like it. I know you’re in a great deal of pain and feel very alone right now but I can guarantee that will not always be the case.”

“Er, yeah. All right?”

“John. We’ve talked before about the matter of you not being a danger to others. I have to ask right now: Are you a danger to yourself?”

He is so fucked. “Ah, no? No, I’m not. Feeling a bit better, in fact.” He shifts again under her scrutiny and tries for a smile. Jesus, he had no idea she paid such close attention to him. Finally she nods and moves to get some sheets of paper out from under her notes.

“If that changes,” she says, handing him the printouts, “I want you to call me. If I can’t be reached, you need to call one of those numbers there. Even if you really are feeling as good as you say, the holidays can be a stressful time even for people who aren’t already dealing with the things you are. Should anything happen, if you ever at all, any time of the day or night, start thinking that you are going to harm yourself or worse, please. Promise me you’ll call someone.”

“Yeah, sure.” A slight frown comes over Ella’s face. Right, that was too cavalier. He just didn’t expect to be seen through so thoroughly, even if everything that she’s said is a lie. He tries again. “Look, I’m not a danger to myself, alright? And I promise to do like you say. I’ll call you or someone else if things take a bad turn.” 

She’s clearly not convinced, but she lets it go.

It must be nice, John thinks, to have such a view of the world. To really think that things work like that. That “there’s always hope” and “things will get better”, blah blah blah. So much nonsense.

But...what if it wasn’t? 

Great, now he’s back to that god-awful merry go round of all the “what if”s. What if Jim missed him and came back? What if _Mam_ missed him, tried to call him for Christmas and he wasn’t around to receive it? What if--

He slams the heel of his hand into the side of his skull, hard. There is no point in those “what ifs”. There’s only what _is_. And what he _is_ doing is sending his letter to Sholto. What he _is_ going to do is get that gun, and he _is_ going to use it. To do anything else would be, well. Stupid. 

And John is incredibly done with being stupid.


	22. I'm all right. Until I'm alone. And lately that's all the time. You're gone. And there's just nothing now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to heshineslikeglass and Kadorienne for the beta-ing and listening to me wail for weeks about this chapter. It's tiny. It's bad. But it's now posted and out of my fucking face. *breathes into a bag*

While he waits, there are a few things to put in order, most notably creating an official Last Will and Testament. That turns out to be easy enough, just the simple task of typing out a statement leaving everything to Jim, getting it witnessed, notarized, stored, and he’s done. Everything would have probably defaulted to Jim even without the document, seeing as Jim failed to send him any kind of divorce papers leaving them still technically married--a small gesture that John wants to cling to so badly despite his common sense--but it feels good to have ensured it. He can’t stand even the slightest chance of his sister or mother suddenly popping up out of nowhere and trying to stake some kind of far-fetched claim on his life after he was dead. Best to just leave everything for Jim to sort out.

As the holidays creep closer John starts getting more antsy and certain doubts about his plan flair up more and more often. What if he’s gotten the address wrong? What if Sholto _isn’t_ able to get what John needs? This is the only plan he has; unlike Jim, he hasn’t the first clue about acquiring so much as a paperclip through illegal means. Given enough trial and error he could probably figure it out, but one such as, say, _getting arrested_ isn’t an error he can afford to make.

The day before Christmas Eve it’s built up to a full body itch, making him nearly vibrate with pent up tension. Daytime talk shows don’t offer much of a relief, especially with the endless reminders about Christmas, but he’s not got a lot of distractions to choose from. He’s barely paying attention when the broadcast cuts out, the false cheer of Connie Prince and her guests suddenly replaced with a news reporter who projects an air of professional distress and concern. It’s enough to get John’s full attention and good job, too, because in between all the “this just in” and “still unfolding” and “details that are still sketchy” is something rather important: Oxford Circus Station has exploded. 

Before John can even begin to figure out how to react, his phone rings and John dives for it, adrenaline spiking through him. Oxford is always a busy place and today is one of the biggest shopping days of the year, if Jim or Mam had been out and about---

It’s not either of them. Instead there’s a Red Cross Emergency Response worker on the line, giving him instructions and coordinates.

It’s so completely out of the blue that John is too busy being gobsmacked to interrupt her. He’s never signed himself up for anything like the Red Cross but here’s a volunteer saying his name is at the top of her list. Maybe a form of some kind snuck its way into the stack on accident while he was signing himself out of the military? But...no, while that’s technically _possible_ , it’s still something of a reach. It doesn’t matter. Sad as it is, he can’t be of use. There’s no way he can go running into the chaos of a disaster area; even if his hand wasn’t affected by nerve damage, his leg---

John very suddenly realizes that he’s standing up. On his own. Without pain. 

He stretches his left arm out in front of him and stares. His hand stays perfectly steady.

“Sir?” the volunteer asks. “Are you still with me?”

“Yes! Ah, yes,” John fumbles, “I was just looking for a pen and paper. I’m sorry, can you repeat all that please?”

Maybe it’s wrong of him, but they’re going to need all the help they can get, he rationalizes. John _is_ damn good at his job, how different from a war zone can it be?

Not that different, it turns out. The street itself is cracked and cratered, full of rubble and what’s left of dozens of double-deckers. Some of the buses look like they’ve landed partially inside some of the hollowed out storefronts. The air is full of familiar noises--sirens, sobbing, shouted orders; a sense of calm settles through him and gives him focus. Group leaders give their instructions and John breaks off with a smaller team to look for survivors on the edges of the street, mindful of how unstable the ground may prove to be. Carefully, wreckage is shifted and they find someone, then another, then the next. Time slides away from him as he works, assessing injuries, putting his triage skills to use again and again bandaging or stitching flesh back together to staunch blood flow, administering pain killers and even resetting a collarbone to allow a victim’s lungs enough air.

Of course, not all are found alive.

Distantly, John can’t help but note the similarity of the victim’s expressions--they’re all civilians, yet they look exactly the same as the soldiers that John saw. The fear, the confusion, the shock. A gas line or a bomb, the result is no different. 

And just as he had learned to do in the war,John removes himself from it all, keeps himself from caring. There’s no point in caring about anyone but your closest loved ones. Everyone died. It didn’t matter if you were younger, older, good, bad--a kind person died just as easily and painfully as a cruel one. 

The realization had shocked him horribly, at first. He’d shook and cried to Jim over the phone, the new understanding bursting out of him and Jim, long acquainted with this knowledge, had done his best to soften the pain of it. 

“She got shot---they just--she was _nice_ , she was _nice_ to me and I couldn’t keep her alive and she just--she just _died_ \--”

“Oh, darling,” Jim had sighed, so soft and so sad, like he hadn’t ever wanted John to ever have to understand, but was resigned to the necessity of it. “Darling, that’s what people _do_.”

The truth had hurt for a while, but John had eventually mastered it. Had learned how to spare himself the pain and how to move on.

It serves him well now, and he moves efficiently from victim to victim over the next two and a half days, pausing only to snack and take short naps in the volunteer tent. He manages to brush off a few polite suggestions that he take a real break until it’s finally phrased as an order.

“Go home,” his team leader says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Sleep in a proper bed, eat real food. It’s been damn lucky to have you around, the way you’ve been working through every rotation and keeping yourself together. You’ve done a good job of it, better than most, but you need some time off to take care of yourself too.”

 _No I don’t_ , John doesn’t say. He knows arguing won’t do much good, and he _is_ suddenly so very tired, all the exertion catching up with him at once, so he simply agrees. They promise to call him back in, if necessary, but he’s pretty sure they won’t. 

It’s most likely that anyone found after this point will be dead. Between the other volunteers and the proper authorities, he hardly thinks they’ll need him for that.

He winds up crashing as soon as he gets home, not even undressing beyond taking his shoes off. 

Just as he’d thought, he doesn’t get called back in. All the same, the high of it lasts for almost an entire week as he follows the news closely, keeping tabs on “The Great Christmas Gas Disaster” during the day and letting debates between talking heads lull him to sleep at night. But now that he’s not activly involved, now that he’s just following the story, the shine dulls and his attention fades. It’s fascinating in a way but he can’t _care_ about it. All that damage done, all those lives shattered...and he can’t care about a single one of them. He’s empty, and as a result, it’s not long before he starts sinking again. His mind turns against him and his body follows a mere heartbeat after, leaving him back at square one.

At least, he thinks sourly, he got to have a distraction over the holidays.

It’s enough to make him hope for another explosion, despite the damage such a thing would cause. Selfish, yes, but by the time he’s part way through January he’s back to being desperate about the letter he sent. It’s been ages, there’s no reason he shouldn’t have gotten _some_ kind of response by now. Should he send another one? Did he get the address wrong? Is it a pointless thing to keep hoping for? Should he be looking elsewhere instead of waiting?

He needs it to be a gun. All the other methods--pills, poison, cutting his wrists, hanging himself--he’s a doctor, he knows just how much room there is for error there. Not only that, but, well. Everyone dies. He’s lucky in a way, he gets to choose the time, the place and the way he goes out. It needs to be on his own terms, full stop. If he can’t make choices in his life anymore, he can at least make the choice about his death and this is the best way to go out as himself.

Still, he’s already past the end of his rope here. Maybe it would be ok to use another method, maybe…?

Thankfully, before he can stoop to that, he gets a response. It’s nothing but a key with a bank safety deposit box number, but that’s more than enough to let him know that his plea has been answered.

Even if it’s going to be for the last time, he can’t wait to hold a weapon again.

John wastes no time in rushing to the listed bank and being taken to his treasure. The bank employee leaves to let him examine the boxes contents in private and John is not disappointed with what he finds. He runs a reverent finger over the weapon’s barrel and feels so giddy he could burst. 

He has it. It’s here. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

John always told Jim that Sholto would never let him down, would never fail to have John's back, and here’s the proof, right in front of him. He wasn’t stupid to trust, not in this case.

There’s a letter along with the gun and he stuffs it into his pocket to read as soon as he gets back home. He’s got time enough for that. He’s got all the time in the world now.


	23. Who came up with person-man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took like two freaking weeks but hey! Look at this way, at least it wasn't another two years like before so when you think about it, it's totally a win.
> 
> Much thanks to heshineslikeglass and Kadorienne for beta reading and hand holding. Seriously guys, my wailing about this chapter was not quiet.

_Since my departure, I have held amongst my fears the concern that I would one day see your name listed among the dead. Your continued survival has been of great relief to me, as is the knowledge that while you have been injured, you have made it home. However, I am well aware that returning to the civilian world does not guarantee a peaceful life. It is my hope that this will aid in protecting you from whatever danger you face. You served with distinction and are one of the most determined people I have ever had the honor of meeting. As such, I have no doubt you will overcome whatever adversity you face._

_You need not respond, as I’m sure all your energies are currently engaged elsewhere. At any rate, the postal service does not seem to be moving in a timely manner, as your letter appears to have been mishandled several times before arriving properly. (I have found no signs of tampering, so it seems to simply have been an unfortunate error on their part.) I only hope the delay has not hindered you too badly. Again, I am certain in your ability to soundly trounce whatever threatens you, but should you require further assistance, rest assured that you need only ask. You are one of the few good people who truly serve to make the world a better place, and I would be proud to offer you whatever help I can._

John had spent over two decades being as close to Jim as one human being could possibly be to another, so it’s no surprise that his mind is able to show him, in full stereo and technicolor detail, exactly what Jim would do or say in reaction to almost any given situation. It was something John had always welcomed and taken comfort in, particularly during their years apart.

It is not, however, either of those things at the moment. Instead he’s stuck with a distinctly painful image of Jim with exaggeratedly wide eyes and a mocking expression, his voice taunting.

_“Ooopsies! Aw, bad call sweetcheeks. You’re in a reeeeal pickle now, huh.”_

Unfortunately, it’s the truth: Reading the letter that came with the gun was a miserably stupid thing to do.

Stupid to have read it, stupid to have even asked Sholto for help in the first place. How had he really expected that to work? Simultaneously believing that no one gave a damn about him but expecting to get help at the same time? That was some seriously contradictory bullocks and John could just put his head through the wall, he really could.

But Sholto _had_ helped, and now, now his peace is shattered and he’s a mess again, with new guilt on top of it all. 

Because someone cares. Because in reaching out to Sholto, he’s made the man an unwitting accomplice in his suicide. It’s not fair, he shouldn’t feel guilt about it. Yes, someone thinks his life has value, someone feared his death and wanted to ensure his continued survival, someone thinks, god, _thinks his being alive makes the world a better place_. 

But that person isn’t Jim, and this is John’s life, no one else’s. It shouldn’t matter that the gun was given to him with the express hopes of keeping him safe and alive. He’s miserable. He was at _peace_ , he was going to get _out_ \---

He can’t do it. It goes around and around in his head until he can’t breathe, until he’s choking on uncertainty and all the empty, Jimless spaces in the flat smother him. The unfairness of it all is crushing and finally he can’t bear to be inside for one more second and he throws himself out onto the street, bad leg and all. 

Maybe going for a walk will help. Of course, all it does at first is remind him of how it’s one of the things Ella had recommended, going outside, simply being _out_ of his flat, and that brings up all the nonsense she’d spewed at him about those suicides leaving devastation behind, how it was a final solution to a temporary problem and---

He tries to push it down. Ella had no idea what she was talking about, she couldn’t. This isn’t a temporary problem; Jim doesn’t love him and never will again, John will never be happy again no matter how long he lives--how long he _survives_ because honestly, that’s all he’ll be doing. 

But maybe he could, his mind mind whispers, maybe he could at least be content, he’s already lived a day and a half longer than he thought he would, he’s already gotten through weeks and holidays when he thought it was impossible, and he’d had a good distraction hadn’t he, helping out with that nasty gas explosion, that had worked so maybe there could be more to his life, he could...

 _What if, what if, what if._

His leg feels like there’s a knife sticking out of it but he pushes that down too, just walks and walks and walks until he has no idea how much time has passed. He doesn’t pay much mind to where he’s going either, letting himself move in circles, turn here and there, even go backwards, it doesn’t matter. He needs to keep going, keep moving until at least one piece of his jumbled mind falls into place. 

He can’t go home like this, he just can’t. 

He’s so caught up in trying to make sense of things that he doesn’t turn so much as slow his pace the first time someone calls his name, barely even registers it. His name is ordinary, like he is, like the millions of people who share it. But then he hears “John Watson!” and he turns around so quickly he almost falls. 

A large man with glasses is hurrying towards him, smiling. John has no idea who he is, and beyond him being Not Jim, John doesn’t really care, but he’s already stopped and the man has caught up to him. 

“Stamford!” The man gestures to himself. “Mike Stamford! We were at Bart’s together--”

Holy shite. 

“Yes, ah, yes, sorry Mike, hello,” John fumbles, then puts out his hand. Mike shakes it, still smiling.

“Yes,” he laughs, “I know. I got fat.”

John can’t really contest that, and since Mike doesn’t seem to feel badly about it, he doesn’t try to, just gives a tight smile of his own in return. 

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

John is really not prepared for any of this. Trying to keep things short, he taps at his leg with his cane.

“I got shot.”

That works to dampen Mike’s jolly demeanor, but only for a moment. John should have known that wouldn’t work, Mike’s positivity had always been endless and true to form, he bounces back in seconds, telling John that he’s still got some yet on his planning period and suggests that they take a few minutes to catch up on each other’s lives. John almost says no, almost tries to make excuses, then stops. Why not stop and talk for a moment? It’s not like he’s got anything better to do, and it might take his mind off things long enough to clear his head. It certainly can’t hurt. 

Of course, that’s what he’d thought about reading Sholto’s letter and look at the damage that did.

It’s too late now though, Mike is already beaming and bustling off to the nearest vendor to get coffee for both of them. Thankfully, he returns before John can make up his mind about making a run for it. 

(Not that he can actually move all that fast, and it would make Mike feel terrible and that would be just one more thing for John to feel guilty about even though he has no reason to care and--)

He takes a sip of hot coffee, letting the burn of it interrupt his thoughts, and casts about for something to say.

“So, you’re still at Bart’s then?”

“Teaching now, yeah.” Mike chuckles. “Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them.”

It’s just amusing enough to make John smile. Mike, Bart’s, students. At least some things hadn’t changed. Mike’s next words throw any chance at light conversation out the window, however.

“What about you? Must have been nice, yeah? Coming back.” He elbows John lightly. “London, _Jim_. All the things you need to sort yourself out, right?”

John freezes for a moment before forcing himself to breathe. It winds up being more like a gasp, so he tries again. Next to him, Mike’s good cheer is faltering again.

“John?”

John shakes his head, unable to look at him. He focuses down at his coffee instead, his hand squeezing hard enough the the top is ready to pop off. He tries to unclench, tries to even out his breathing. He will not cry. Mike’s assumption that of _course_ Jim would still be around makes the pain of it fresh all over again, and telling Mike, someone who had known them when they were happy, that Jim’s left him is humiliating in a way that he hadn’t anticipated. Blinking hard he tries, for yet another time today, to push things down and tells himself _he will not cry_.

“Oh my god,” Mike breathes, “John. John, he wasn’t...he wasn’t at--at Oxford Street, was he?”

John can’t help the small, pained keen that bursts out of him. Because of course that’s the next logical conclusion: The only reason why John could possibly be this upset over Jim was if he was dead. John knows how he looks, his beard growing in because he can’t be bothered to shave, his clothes mismatched and unwashed. Hell, he’s only showered once since his return because he hasn’t had the energy to do more than spray himself down heavily with cologne. Why else would John be so run down and alone? Surely the two of them would be together till death made them part. God, goddammit, those are tears and Mike’s hand is flying to his mouth, horrified.

“Oh my god, John, I’m so sor---”

John shakes his head frantically, wiping quickly at his eyes. “No,” he croaks out, “no, he’s--fine. I’m sure. Somewhere.” He takes another deep breath and tries to say it all as quick as possible. “I came back. He left. Me. He left me. When I.” He chokes on the words, unable to elaborate. 

He can practically hear Mike’s jaw drop. 

“He…” Mike moves to angle his body completely towards John and waves a hand, as if that will somehow help it all make sense. “After you’d been...he just walked out on you?”

John shrugs, turns away and wipes at his blurry eyes again. “Yeah.”

There’s nothing but stunned silence for a minute, and John uses it to try and pull himself together. He’s making an absolutely pitiful display, really. It’s beyond embarrassing. _John_ is embarrassing. No wonder he’s alone.

Why did he think going outside would help, or that talking to someone he knew would be harmless? This is officially worse than how he was even a few minutes ago.

“Well!” Mike erupts, indignant as only the British born and bred can be. “Well! That’s just. You do all that, you get _shot_ in a _war_ and he pulls that rubbish? That’s just.” He huffs, affronted. “Who does he bloody well think he is!”

It pulls a startled laugh out of John, and he finally looks back at Mike. “Someone smarter than me, I’m sure.”

Strangely, his words seem to strike a chord with Mike, his expression changing abruptly. That’s Mike’s Thinking Face, John remembers. How nice it must be to have changed so little over the years.

Tears now safely aborted, John sniffs a little and takes another sip of his drink, but then he has to ask.

“What?”

“Oh, well, that just...reminds me of something. From earlier today.”

“Oh?”

Mike nods, his expression morphing slowly from Thinking Face to I Have A Plan Face. He stands abruptly.

“John,” he says, and yes, Mike definitely has some sort of plan, “come with me. There’s something I think you should see.”

John doesn’t move, but he can’t deny he’s a bit interested. Mike’s plans, while not always smart, had almost always been fun. He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What?”

“You’ll see. Now come on, up.” Mike waves a hand at him. “Up and follow me. You won’t regret it.”

Well, hell. Why not. Surely John can’t feel worse than he already does? (He keeps being wrong about that, of course, but surely _this_ is the worst he can feel. It must be.) Sighing, John does as he’s bid.

“I won’t regret it?”

Mike’s smile is crafty, obviously pleased with himself. “You won’t. In fact, I think it’ll rather cheer you up. Now come on, we’re going to Bart’s.”

John severely doubts that there’s anything that could “cheer him up”, particularly anything at Bart’s, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just-- _nice_ to have someone be upset on his behalf, to have someone make the effort. Another person who cares. 

Something in John twists uncomfortably. Mike would be upset if John died, he realizes. Would care. Annoyingly, his therapist's words pop right back up again and augh, go _away_ Ella.

He focuses instead on following Mike, who keeps his chatter deliberately light, going on about particularly troublesome students, which staff members keep having small scandals, who among their old friends have gotten married and who had kids. It’s not Mike’s fault they fell out of touch, John knows. He could have kept in contact after their time at Bart’s ended, it would have been easy enough but he just...didn’t. He had Jim and he had his work. That had been more than enough for him.

Finally, they stop in front a door that seems no more remarkable than the others they’ve passed. John frowns briefly at Mike, who looks not unlike a magician about to pull off an astounding act. 

“I think you’ll like this lab,” he says, and knocks on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opens it and ushers John through. It’s been updated, sure, but John can’t see anything particularly interesting about it. In fact, it’s already occupied by a man bent over a microscope. They’re probably interrupting, but Mike doesn’t seem bothered by that. Still, John tries to be polite, staying at the end of the table the stranger is working at. 

“Bit different from my day,” John notes. It’s a bit obvious, but he can’t think of anything else. Looking around the room doesn’t make Mike’s reason for bringing him here any clearer. 

Mike laughs. “You have no idea!”

The stranger speaks suddenly. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

Mike makes a show of patting himself down. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding all that apologetic, “it must be in my coat.”

John is pretty sure that’s not true. He isn’t sure why Mike would lie about that, but since they’re probably distracting this man from his work, it couldn’t hurt to volunteer his own. It’s not like he’s getting any mileage out of it, after all. _Someone_ should use it.

“Here,” he says, digging it of a pocket. “You can use mine if you want.”

“Oh.” The man focuses on John, as if noticing him for the first time. “Thank you.”

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike says. He even goes so far as to point, as if John isn’t the only other person in the room. It makes something twist inside John again. ‘Old friend’. As if a near decade of silence didn’t matter one bit because a friend was a friend was a friend. Swallowing, John holds out his phone for the stranger, presumably another one of Mike’s friends, to take. 

The man immediately sets about to texting and John figures that’ll be the end of it. He’s still not sure what it is Mike wanted him to--

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

What?

John glances at Mike, who looks so smug he’s practically radiating it. 

“Sorry?” John asks.

“Which was it,” the stranger asks, actually bothering to look at him this time, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John has spent the last day and a half with nothing but the same, terrible thoughts looping through his head. Now his mind finds a new track to get stuck on: a simple repetition of _What the fuck?_

A new person, a woman, enters the room, and the man hands John his phone back, walking away. John’s too stuck to do much more than stand there, holding it like an idiot. Because, really: _What the fuck?_ The only person to ever surprise him this much has been, well. Jim. 

He hears the door open and shut again and realizes it’s back to being just the three of them, and that he has no idea who that woman was or what she said. Hopefully, she didn’t try to address him, and frankly, it doesn’t matter if she did; he has much, much more important things to figure out right now like how the hell did that complete stranger know to ask...Mike couldn’t have told this man anything about John, and he’s only been introduced as an old friend, which could mean any number of things, so how...how...

No. No way.

 _I think it’ll cheer you up,_ Mike had said. 

His heart rate rising along with a strange bit of hope, John hastily puts away his phone, but before he can say anything, the stranger is talking again.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

 _What the fuck,_ goes John’s brain.

Outloud, he says, “I’m sorry, what?”

God, how many times has he said that so far? He sounds like the idiot he is, and if this man can do what John’s starting to think he can…

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

The man smiles at him; it’s a bit odd, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to do it properly. John stares at him, entirely lost. “Flatmates?” He looks to Mike for help. “Who said anything about flatmates?”

Mike opens his mouth but again, the stranger speaks first, gathering up his coat and shrugging into it.

“I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just returned home from military service in Afghanistan.” The man throws his scarf on. “Wasn’t a difficult leap.” 

It is for John, who has so many questions right now because _what the fuck is going on_ , but first:

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

The observation, the strange smile, the just a bit off social interaction, the speed of the thoughts jumping from track to track--John finds himself feeling oddly hopeful. Please let him be right, please.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it.”

John doesn’t doubt that. Hell John could probably _buy_ it with the money that he has now, but that does _not_ answer his question, and the man proceeds to continue blowing straight past it. 

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” 

Not appearing sorry at all despite his apology, the man heads for the door like it’s a done deal. That’s all right, it makes John all the more certain that he’s right in his assessment of the situation, and luckily, he knows how to deal with things like this. 

“Hey!” He thumps the cane on the floor, forcing the man’s attention onto him. “We won’t be meeting _anywhere_ unless you answer my question.”

It works, and the man blinks, confused, as he backs away from the door and moves closer to John.

“Problem?”

John huffs. “Several. I don’t know what ‘nice little flat’ you’re talking about, I don’t know where it is, I don’t know your name, and most importantly, you haven’t answered me. Afghanistan. Tell me what you know.”

For the first time, the man seems to take him seriously, or more seriously at any rate, looking at him with a penetrating intensity that’s so familiar John knows he’s wonderfully, gloriously right about this man even before the words start pouring out.

“I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a marriage that’s recently ended, rather abruptly I might add. Your wife’s been wanting out for a long time, years probably, time enough to have an escape route planned; when you came home she deemed you no longer useful and used it. Really, you should have seen it coming a mile away but you weren’t expecting it, couldn’t fight it, and now you’ve been left with no choice but to move on, only you’ve nowhere to move on _to_. You lost everything to the divorce, including your friends and don’t have any family, at least none close enough for you to turn to; combine that with your injury and you very simply have nothing left, hence a need to seek out new avenues as you’re doing now. I _also_ know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic--quite correctly I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” 

Clearly finished with the whole thing, the man heads back towards the door and John doesn’t stop him, too light-headed to say anything. Thankfully, the man pauses for a final time and remembers to finally give a name and address then makes another strange expression--an outlandish wink this time and where the hell did he learn these mannerisms from, cheesy sitcoms?--and Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street finally disappears through the door, presumably to retrieve his misplaced riding crop.

It takes John a moment to realize what his own face is doing: He’s smiling. He’s truly, genuinely smiling for the first time since touching down at Heathrow. 

Sure, Holmes hadn’t been entirely correct, but it was _something_. Enough to be interesting, certainly. John finally understands, _really_ understands, something that Jim had used to say, that he needed distractions in order to keep going or he’d go mad and that John was the best one he’d ever found. There’s no way Holmes can replace Jim, no one could, but even this short meeting has been like finally getting air after drifting in the vacuum of space. 

“See,” Mike says, so pleased with himself it seems like he might burst, “I knew you’d like him.”

“You are the _best_ , Mike, thank you.” John tells him. Mike preens and this time when John laughs, it’s as real as his smile.

A direly needed distraction has appeared in the form of Sherlock Holmes and John intends to grab and hold on to that for as long as he can.


	24. My Friend Dario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I meant to COMPLETELY finish the chapter before I posted, but part of my keyboard is broken so I'm just going to give you this. Yes, you waited 30 days but it's over 50 pages, so. Also I'm sorry but I probably won't be able to properly respond to comments until it is fixed, please don't let that stop you from leaving them!
> 
> Also apparently, some of you are here expecting or pushing for this to turn into Johnlock. Let me be as clear as I can.
> 
> There will be no Johnlock in this story.
> 
> There will be no Johnlock in this story.
> 
> There will be no Johnlock in this story.
> 
> There will be no Johnlock in this story.
> 
> There will be no Johnlock in this story.
> 
> This story has zero percent Johnlock content.
> 
> The amount of Johnlock in this story, it will be zero.
> 
> The person who asked for this story asked for Johniarty, and for a happy ending for them. That is what I am going to give them. We are a very small ship with very few bits of work to enjoy. There is a shitton of Johnlock, if that is what you want then more power to you, go get some. Please let Johniarty works, as labeled and prompted, stay Johniarty. Thank you.
> 
> SO MANY thanks to Kadorienne and heshineslikeglass for putting up with my roaring about this chapter and for betaing it!

Something interesting has finally happened.

Something interesting. Has finally happened.

_Something interesting has finally happened._

It goes on as a loop through John’s head, slowly filling him with a forgotten feeling of hope. Things seem brighter, sharper than they’d been this morning, the fog in his head clearing a bit and while he’s still limping, it seems more habitual than painful. It exposes the free, floaty feeling he’d gotten from deciding to end his life as false: That wasn’t freedom. Finding a good reason to keep on living is. 

His newly found good cheer lasts all the way until he opens the door of his flat. It’s like looking into a pocket universe, a depressing, airless place that doesn’t seem quite real, unconnected to the rest of the world. He’s hard pressed to make his limbs move enough to push himself inside, each step an unwilling one. He’d been so mired in all of it, sunk so deeply into a pit of despair that he hadn’t even realized how _dark_ it felt in here. Meeting Holmes had alleviated the gloom just long enough for him to realize it was there, that this was where it lived, the only thing filling this empty place. He’s seized by the desperate desire to flee from it; to run right out and never come back. There isn’t even a specific place that he wants to run _to_ just...anywhere. Anywhere that isn’t this hell.

John had automatically dismissed the offer of being roommates; he had a flat, had his life here, all the echos of his happiness and the remnants of Jim. Why would he leave all that to move in with a total stranger, even an interesting one?

Maybe it’s not a terrible thing to consider. He’s been inside for less than five minutes and being surrounded by everything he’s lost is already threatening to crush him and drain away every last bit of vigor he’s just gained. Staying here, clinging to it all...it will kill him. If he wants to live--and he _does_ , he realizes, with a sudden burst of clarity, he _does_ want to live, or at least doesn’t actively want to die--then he needs to get himself out as soon as possible. How had he not realized that? Hell, he’s been sleeping on his sofa for months because the bedroom is so full of pain that he can hardly stand being in the room long enough to get clothes, let alone sleep in it. How had getting out not occurred to him as an option?

It doesn’t matter. He knows now, which means there’s no reason to turn down Holmes’ offer. True, he knows nothing about the man, but that’s easy to rectify, starting with the text his phone was used to send.

Settling himself down on the couch--which is beginning to smell, how had he missed that, how had he not noticed the dirt and sweat that had begun to accumulate on it?--he unlocks his phone and takes a look.

_If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH_  

He stares at it. Arrest…? Is Holmes some kind of police officer?

A google search of the man’s helpfully unique name provides more answers. Holmes is not a police officer. Instead, he’s dubbed himself, according his own website a “consulting detective”. Which is, John decides as he clicks through the site, just a fancy way of saying private detective. There’s an archive of previously solved cases, including an explanation about the green ladder, and even an essay on the “Analysis of Tobacco Ash” which...huh. Is actually interesting in a roundabout sort of way. As long as the flat itself isn’t a total shite hole, John doubts that sharing a space with Holmes would be a bad idea. At the very least it wouldn’t be boring. 

A small voice at the back of John’s mind warns him that given his history, moving in with a genius detective might not be the best of ideas, but honestly, that just makes it an even more attractive prospect. Besides, it’s his _past_ , likely ancient history and utterly uninteresting to someone like Holmes. He doesn’t even have so much as Powers’ shoes anymore, it’s not as if any of it could suddenly leap up and bite him on the arse. It’s hardly a risk.

Standing on the steps of 221 Baker Street, John can say that the flat, at least from the outside, is officially Not A Shite Hole. It looks rather nice in fact, not surprising that Holmes needs a roommate to help pay for it. It was a good call to push himself into looking presentable; he’s finally showered and clean shaven, wearing fresh clothes, though he hadn’t been able to resist adding a light spritz of Jim’s cologne. Just as he starts to knock Holmes pulls up in a cab, right on time and John greets him using his last name, only to be corrected as they shake hands.

“Sherlock, please.” There’s a bit of an off sort of smile again.

He’s got a feeling that Holmes--- _Sherlock_ is putting more effort into being friendly than he usually would. He must be pretty desperate for a roommate, John thinks. His eyes flick over Sherlock’s coat, an item that obviously cost a bit of money. So, occasionally has money, but doesn’t earn enough or steadily enough to keep himself in the style he obviously prefers.

“This is a prime spot,” John remarks. “Must be expensive.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady--she’s given me a special deal,” Sherlock tells him proudly. “Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“Oh? You stopped her husband from being executed?” John has to admit, that’s a bit impressive.

“Oh, no.” One corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up . “I ensured it.”

That’s...not exactly what he was expecting. There’s any number of reasons why a woman would _want_ her husband put to death, John knows logically, but mostly he’s stuck on marveling at how strange and dysfunctional other people and their relationships are. He can’t imagine doing such a thing.

When the woman herself appears, exclaiming over Sherlock like a grandmother and even hugging him, the doddery image she presents makes it even harder to imagine, but John is no stranger to misleading fronts. As they’re introduced and shake hands, John reminds himself that under her harmless exterior is a person who would happily kill those she proclaimed to care about.

He’s been here all of a minute and already things are already proving to be interesting. 

There are stairs. Of _course_ he couldn’t be lucky enough for the flat to be on a ground floor. Still, climbing all seventeen of them will be a small inconvenience compared to--oh god, what is that wallpaper? Apparently Mrs. Hudson had felt the need to bring bits of tropical hell back with her from Florida. 

Tacky wallpaper aside, the flat itself is actually rather nice and taking a look around, John goes ahead and says so. Large windows, fireplace, a nice layout and even a good amount of room for two single people, though that’s almost disguised by the amount of crap that’s strewn about the place. That’s alright though, between the two of them it shouldn’t be hard to clean up the rubbish---

\--that all belongs to Sherlock. 

John stares at him. “When did you move in?”

“Yesterday,” Sherlock says defensively, as if it’s only natural to create this much mess in that short a time. True, John’s living conditions have never exactly been immaculate, mostly thanks to Jim, but for all the mess Jim had created, he’d also done his best to not stick John with the sole responsibility of cleaning it all up. It wasn’t something he’d always succeeded at, but he’d tried.  
John is going to have to make things clear right at the start here.

“Roommate,” John says firmly, and points a finger for emphasis. “ _Roommate_ , not your maid.”

“Oh!” That seems to get through, pushing Sherlock into motion. “Well, obviously, I can, ah, straighten things up a bit,” he offers, moving things around with the manner of someone who has no idea of how to tidy up a place. Jamming a knife through a stack of letters on the mantle piece is not actually helpful, but he looks so pleased with himself that John decides to wait for another time to point that out. Besides, now that he’s looking, something new catches his attention. He uses his cane to point this time.

“That’s a skull.”

“Friend of mine.” Sherlock pauses, reconsidering his words. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Mrs. Hudson entering the room. “Well. I say friend...”

John definitely needs to know the story behind that statement. It’ll have to be later though, as Sherlock’s attention has clearly shifted back to “cleaning” and Mrs. Hudson is speaking to him, a cup and saucer clutched in one hand.

“What do you think then, Dr. Watson?”

What does he think? He thinks he’s surrounded by rubbish, a “consulting detective” who thinks that cleaning means stabbing things, a ruthless landlady and the skull of a dead “friend”. In comparison to the all encompassing despair of his current living situation it’s the most comfortable he’s felt in months. Of course he likes it, he’s going to move in as fast as he can.

No reason to be obvious about it though. Instead, he feigns a smile of polite interest as she continues trying to sell him on it. The phrasing she uses in doing so is it a bit odd, though.

“There’s another bedroom upstairs, should you be needing two bedrooms.”

There’d better be, John is more than a bit done with sleeping on the living room sofa.

“I’d assumed there was,” he says slowly, a slight frown forming. “Sorry, but why wouldn’t we be needing two?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, clearly trying to reassure him, “there’s all sorts ‘round here.” Her voice drops to a stage whisper. “Mrs. Turner next door’s got _married ones_.” 

Married ones of what? It takes him a moment to catch her meaning. He can’t help the way his expression twists unpleasantly. 

“Well,” he grinds out, “how nice for them.”

Taken aback, Mrs. Hudson turns towards Sherlock for a moment, who doesn’t so much as glance at them. John clears his throat, tries for a tone that’s slightly less bitter.

“I’m married.”

Mrs. Hudson freezes for a moment before her expression turns overjoyed and she lets out a squeal, almost dropping her cup as she brings her hands together and whirls on Sherlock. “Sherlock! You didn’t tell me you’d been married! Oh, he’s a handsome one. And a doctor! Oh my---”

John is speechless, utterly baffled at the leap in her thought process. How…? Fortunately, it’s dramatic enough to get Sherlock’s attention. 

“Don’t be ridiculous; as if I’d get married. And he isn’t either. John’s divorced.”

Mrs. Hudson’s joy evaporates. “But...then…” This time she turns towards John for an explanation. 

“I am too married,” he says firmly.

“Are not.”

“ _Am._ ” John holds up his hand, palm facing himself so that the outside of his ring can be prominently seen. “I was never served papers.”

“Fine, divorced and still wearing your ring.”

Sighing, John lets his hand drop, along with the subject. “I’ll be needing the second bedroom,” he says tiredly.

Mrs. Hudson’s expression melts into sympathy. “It’s not easy is it, going from married to single. It’s such a sudden change, even when you’re expecting it.” She laughs, nostalgic. “You spend all that time building a life with someone and then boop! You’re on you’re own again. It’s a bit scary but moving on is lovely, isn’t it?”

It probably was for her, what with getting her husband executed and all, but he doubts there’s much use in pointing out the differences of their situations. John settles on giving her a nod and a tight smile as she moves to go past him and into the kitchen. He doesn’t watch her go, even when she starts lamenting the mess Sherlock’s made of that room as well. Instead, he focuses on Sherlock, who’s still attempting to make it appear less like a disaster zone. When it becomes clear that he’s being ignored, he goes ahead and settles himself into a clutter-free armchair.

“So,” he says. “243 types of tobacco ash?”

That gets Sherlock’s attention. 

“You found my website.”

John nods. “Not like it was hard. ‘The Science of Deduction’.”

Sherlock looks pleased. “You actually read it?”

“Yep.”

“Well?” He seems almost eager. Makes sense, John reasons, there must not be many people who would actually sit through that sort of thing. “What did you think?”

John pretends to consider. “Mmmm. It was nice, but some of it was, well, a bit obvious. Too easy.” Sherlock’s expression falls, so John adds, “Too easy for what you can do, I mean. You must be dying for a real challenge.” 

That fixes it. “Hardly my fault most criminals are so banal. Not enough of them take proper pride in their work.”

The almost conspiratorial smile Sherlock gives John is a small one, but seems genuine this time. John returns it and Mrs. Hudson comes popping back in, holding a newspaper.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street.”

Suicides? John shifts uncomfortably at the reminder at first, but---why would Sherlock be bothering with a suicide, or even more than one?

As she goes on, Sherlock drifts towards the window. “Three exactly the same.”

“Four,” Sherlock corrects her, staring out. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?”

John’s looking between them, lost, when there’s the hurried banging of footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock doesn’t so much as bat an eye. Instead his tone takes on a slightly colder, impersonal note as he jumps straight to speaking before their visitor, a middle aged man with greying hair, is even properly through the door.

“Where?”

The man sounds a bit out of breath, like he hadn’t spared a single second in rushing to find Sherlock. “Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t be coming to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?” 

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock makes a face and John stays quiet, not intruding on their rapid back and forth and tries to figure out what they’re talking about. A suicide in Brixton, obviously, but there’s nothing special about a suicide, even one that comes with a note. And forensics--this man is a police officer who...just ran off of a crime scene? On his web site Sherlock had claimed to be a “consulting detective”, not just an investigator. Apparently, John realizes, the difference meant that his services weren’t limited to the private sector. He tunes back in to hear Sherlock claim that he needs an assistant. 

The officer clearly wants to say something along the lines of _Not my problem,_ ; instead he sticks to his original question.

“Will you come?”

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock says, as if he’s hardly interested. “I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you.” 

John’s jaw drops a bit as the officer follows his words up with a bloody _bow_ to Sherlock before briefly acknowledging John and Mrs. Hudson and rushing back down the stairs. A bow. What the hell is that.

(Jim would never have stopped crowing about it if he’d been able to get people to do that for him, John thinks. He can just hear it: “Bow before your god of maths you tiny, dimwitted plebeians!”)

He starts a bit when Sherlock shifts suddenly out of his lofty demeanor and jumps into the air, almost shouting in triumph. Watching Sherlock spin around like a child, John can’t help but find Sherlock’s enthusiasm infectious---right up until the point where he realizes he’s being left behind.

There’s no reason to take it personally. It’s not like they’re friends, they’re barely acquaintances, there’s no reason for it to even occur to Sherlock bring him along. That doesn’t stop it from feeling like he’s watching Jim leave him behind yet again, and Mrs. Hudson’s chatter doesn’t help. 

Especially when she tells him, “You’re more the sitting down type, I can tell.”

John clenches his mouth very firmly shut and just gives her a jerky nod. Yes, he’s boring, he knows. Jim knows, Sherlock knows, the entire bloody world knows, now could the universe stop rubbing his face in it for five fucking seconds? He stops listening and barely notices when she walks off. It may be childish to sulk like this, but he doesn’t care. Something interesting is happening and he’s not invited. He’s never going to _be_ invited. It’s a perfectly sulk worthy situation. 

At least he’ll get to hear about it later. Unlike Jim, Sherlock seems all too ready to talk about his exploits to--

“You’re a doctor.”

John looks up, surprised. Given how eager Sherlock was to run off, shouldn’t he be well on his way already?

“In fact,” he says, eyeing John up speculatively, “you’re an _army_ doctor.”

“Ah, yes?” Not sure what that has to do with anything, John doesn’t bother getting up. 

“Any good?”

What the hell kind of question is that? “Well I certainly wasn’t incompetent,” he snaps, still sulky.

“Seen a lot of injuries then,” Sherlock muses, coming closer. “Violent deaths.”

“Obviously.”

Sherlock’s standing right over him now, forcing John to look up at him. No one has any business being that tall. “A bit of trouble too, I bet.”

Not even dignifying that with a response, John just makes a face, because honestly, ‘bit of trouble’? Yes. He had. Also, rain was a bit wet. His silence draws a slow, knowing smile out of Sherlock, who leans down till he’s practically breathing on John’s face. 

“Want to see some more?”

That. Was not what he was expecting. “What?”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and straightens up, clearly unwilling to repeat himself. 

“Do I want to…” Why is he repeating that like an idiot, why is he still sitting down? Yes. The answer is _obviously_ \--

“Yes!” He jolts out of his chair, fumbling for his cane, taking a deep breath to try and rein in his excitement. “Oh _god_ yes.”

Following Sherlock down the stairs feels almost easy. This validation, the recognition of being told that he could be a part of something brilliant again, is something that he’s missed terribly ever since Jim first refused to share it with him. God, he hadn’t even realized just how much. He feels energized and ready and no, as Mrs. Hudson chides them on their way out, it’s not at all decent, but John hasn’t cared about decent in over twenty years. 

Sherlock, clearly, doesn’t care either, and this time he does shout as they leave.

“The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

John laughs, hobbling out after him. Because yes, that’s a wholly fantastic way to phrase it: the game is on.

And this time, even if it’s just in the role of ‘assistant’, John finally gets to be a player.

Sherlock hails a cab faster than John’s ever seen someone manage. He slides in first and is fully absorbed with his phone before John’s even got the door closed.

John decides to take his cue from it, keeping to himself and trying not to fidget, despite his anticipation. He’s not sure if this is part of Sherlock at work, if he needs some kind of quiet time before starting in on a case. For all that he had been motion and noise even Jim had needed that, to be able to sit in undisturbed silence while he focused solely on one thing. John’s already getting more than he’d have thought to ask for. He’s not going to mess it up by being annoying. 

Despite his efforts, Sherlock eventually lets out an exaggerated sigh. “All right. You’ve got questions.”

A great many, but John decides to start with a simple one.

“You said that you’re a consulting detective, but only put up details from private cases on your site. Why not credit yourself with official police ones?”

“Private cases get word of mouth reputation and actually pay money. Broadcasting the depth of my involvement with the police is more likely to make people shy away. Next?”

“Wait.” John holds up a hand. “The police don’t pay you?”

“Nope,” Sherlock says, the word popping with impatience. “ _Next_.”

“Huh.” He thinks about that for a moment, then dismisses it. A person doing something they love for free isn’t exactly outlandish and it certainly explains the other man’s apparent money issues.

“How’d you get in with the police anyhow? It’s not like they regularly go around asking for private eyes to volunteer their skills.”

Sherlock fluffs up like an offended cat. “No, they don’t, so good job I’m not one. _Consulting_ detective, do try to keep up with more than one thought at a time.”

John nods seriously. “Of course, sorry. _Consulting_ detective. Who became involved how?”

“By outperforming them at their own job due to a vastly superior skill set, obviously.”

Obviously. “Ah, right. Your application of the science of deduction.”

Sherlock’s mouth turns down, his eyes narrowing at John’s tone. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I’m the only one in the world who does it.”

“The only one to use deduction specifically for detective work?” John asks, unable to resist baiting him a bit, “You’re absolutely right. Can’t say I’ve seen anyone else using that to solve crimes.”

Sherlock looks like he might be rethinking his decision to nominate John as his assistant, his tone sour. “I read your military history in your face, your failed marriage from your clothes and your ex-wife’s dissatisfaction from your phone. You’ve gotten a personal demonstration, you can’t possibly tell me you doubt my abilities.”

“Oh, no,” John reassures him, “I--well. I don’t doubt that you can do it. It’s just, well.” He shrugs, faux apologetic. “Not the first time I’ve seen something like it. And not the best I’ve seen, either, I’m sorry to say.”

“You’re lying.” Sherlock’s voice is flat.

John shrugs again. “If you say so. After all, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Who. Where.”

“How about you tell me something first.” John slips his phone from his jacket pocket and waggles it a bit. “Everything you can deduce about me, full demonstration. I want to know what I’m working with here and how it compares.”

Sherlock sputters, expression twisting. “Excuse you?”

“Oh, come on. Take your best shot.” When Sherlock doesn’t move, he sighs dramatically. “All right, fine, if you think you can’t match up--”

Sherlock snatches the phone out of his hand and John grins. For someone so intelligent he’s certainly easy to bait. Everything John’s said is true, though. He really does want to see what Sherlock will come up with, if he’ll correct himself. He waits patiently, letting the other man take all the time he needs. To his surprise, Sherlock doesn’t begin with the phone.

“Your cologne,” Sherlock says, starting slowly. “You were practically doused in it yesterday. It’s expensive and not at all something you would choose, so, someone with expensive taste gave it to you. Given the lack of friends and family and the fact that you’re actually wearing it, that leaves the wife. Then there’s the sheer amount you used and your general appearance. You were trying to mask the fact that you hadn’t showered recently, never mind the beard and clothes that plainly showed how far you’d let yourself go. A woman with expensive taste like this? She’d never let her husband walk around like that, meaning that your breakdown stemmed from a recent divorce, one that coincided with your military discharge. You’re still wearing your ring and you’ve not only kept the phone but have taken exceptional care of it. You’re still nauseatingly in love with her, there’s no way that you instigated the divorce. _She_ dumped _you_. Then there’s the clothing itself.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock nods absently, his words coming so rapidly they’re almost blurring into each other now. 

“It’s old, old enough to be things that you owned well before entering military service. Given her taste for fine things, it’s certain that she selected a much nicer wardrobe to match hers and like the ring and the phone, if you still had any of it, that’s what you’d be wearing. She did something with all of it when she walked out and left you only with whatever she considered to be beneath her, hence your need for a flatshare despite all the years of military pay that you sent home and your pension. As I said yesterday, you’ve been left with nothing and no one--any friends that you had were ones she chose, ones that fit her image conscious sensibilities. _Her_ friends, obviously none of which you could turn to for help. That leaves family, but either you don’t have any or you simply don’t feel comfortable turning to them for help. More likely it’s a combination of the two: Not many are left and thanks to your wife, you’re not close to any of them. You weren’t brought up poor, true, but that didn’t stop her from finding them to be common. The feeling would have been mutual--her looking down on them lead to them being resentful of her in return and you, given your nature, chose her over them and have too much pride to go crawling back now. There were likely other contributing factors that made it easy to isolate you from your family but they’re…” 

Sherlock pauses, frowning. He taps the phone against his leg absently.

“I’ll come back to that. Regardless what the issues were, they were there, which is obvious from this.” He rests his finger over the infinity symbol on the back cover of the phone. “It matches your ring. Your ring is simple, understated--you chose it, not her, and the symbol itself is something that holds meaning for your specifically, something you hit on very early in the relationship when you were younger. The idea of infinite love for an infinite time appealed to your extreme romanticism and you never grew out of it. She promised you forever and given that you’re sentimental beyond the point of foolishness, it never occurred to you not to believe her. It’s pathetic, but not entirely your fault; she understood your mindset, encouraged it and played up to it as much as possible. A gift this new, this expensive, even after she already had plans to leave you? She knew exactly how to exploit your weak spots. The message here, the ludicrously excessive use of hugs and kisses; ‘I’ve missed you so much, look at how much I love you’--no one feels this much even when it’s genuine. It’s either the work of a Romeo and Juliet obsessed teenager or the effort of an adult with a limited amount of empathy, someone trying too hard and overplaying their hand to the point of it being impossible to believe. You, however, after a lifetime of being accustomed to such behavior, fell for it every time.”

“A lifetime?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sherlock nods. “For you to be so accepting of it in the first place, it means you couldn’t have been very experienced; she was your first real relationship and you were quite young when the two of you got together, both things that again appeal to your sense of romance. You personally were in a bad place, desperate for a bit of affection and only too happy to let her drown you in it. Some of it may even have been real, but that doesn’t change the fact that you were an easy target and likely one specifically chosen, once she understood what she would get out of you. A man so loyal that he’d never even think to look at another woman, a man so devoted that she would _forever_ be the center of his world? That alone is rare enough, but then you showed yourself to be intelligent enough to be a doctor and a surgeon at that, meaning you’d be pulling a more than decent amount of money in. As long as she stayed with you she’d get everything she could want: A fairy tale romance with Prince Charming and a materially comfortable life.

You joining the military was probably an unexpected plus--she could keep what she had while doing whatever she liked in your absence; there were doubtlessly numerous affairs, ten years is a long time--”

At that, John snaps at Sherlock before he’s aware that he’s doing it. “You don’t know that. That would never have happened, that---I was _special_ , other people weren’t worth the time of day...” Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, and John trails off. 

“That would never have happened,” Sherlock parrots, disbelieving. “Like her leaving you would never happen?” 

“It didn’t,” John insists, but it’s weak and he knows it. “I just. Got boring. That’s all.” 

Sherlock gives him a look that clearly communicates just how sadly deluded he finds John to be. John tightens his lips and turns to look out the window. It may be stupid, but John is stupid,and even in the face of being abandoned, Jim cheating on him is simply not something he can accept. It would break him if he did.

Sherlock picks up again where he left off. “Ten years is a long time. Without you around, she was free to live as if she were single. Maybe she found a better option, maybe she decided she didn’t need what she got from you anymore. Maybe,” Sherlock’s voice takes a pointed edge, “she simply got _bored_ by the monotony of your relationship. Either way, she was ready to leave at any time. You came back injured and in need of more care than she felt like giving, so she made her exit. A large portion of women would have stayed, put off leaving until you were in a better place, even if only because of society's pressure on them to do so. She, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate a single second in upending your life at the worst possible time. You’re aware of just how selfish she is and it still surprises you. Your sentiment blinded you. Not to her true nature--you knew perfectly well what she was like when you married her. You were simply too foolish to see through the deluge of fake affection and realize how easily that nature would turn on you. So what do I know about you?”

This time it’s Sherlock who waggles the phone mockingly. “That you’re a sentimental fool, desperate to be loved. Most important thing to know, don’t you think? You based your whole life on it.”

A sentimental fool, desperate to be loved. God. John closes his eyes. Is that what Jim had seen, is that how he’d thought of John? It can’t have been. Wordlessly, he puts his hand out for his phone.

Handing it over, Sherlock adds, “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not exactly alone on that front. There’s a whole slew of people with that mindset, you see them every day, all of them needing to feel special. At least your compulsion for high pressure, high risk situations mitigates things a bit. Makes the ordinary a little less boring.” 

Opening his eyes, he turns the phone over in his hands and runs a finger slowly over the inscribing. He’d asked, he reminds himself. He’d wanted to know. He just hadn’t expected...Jim had spoiled him, really. John had gotten to have all his brilliance and all his kindness at the same time. Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn’t have any reason to cushion the blows of his observations. Observations, John reminds himself, that hadn’t exactly been right. 

“That’s painful,” he says at last.

Sherlock snorts derisively. “I’ll never understand why people react badly when they ask for the truth.”

“No, I mean it’s painful how wrong you are.” 

That gets him an exaggerated eye-roll and another deep sigh. “Just because you don’t want to believe something doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Oh, certainly,” John agrees. “But that doesn’t change basic facts.”

“What?” Sherlock sits upright, stiff. “What did I get miss?”

“Where do I start?”

“I can’t have gotten _that_ much wrong.”

“Hey, if you don’t want to know--”

“Oh for---” Sherlock makes a frustrated noise and waves his hand. “Don’t be childish, just tell me.”

Just for that, John decides, he won’t correct everything. It’s best not to anyway, most of it is too personal and complicated. He’ll just stick to some basics. 

“I didn’t get left with nothing, I got left with everything. Flat, belongings, all of it. I didn’t choose the ring or the symbol, but I did choose the friends--I just fell out of contact. The expensive taste is correct to a point, but there was never any reason for me to wear anything but what I chose. In fact, the cologne isn’t mine.” 

He pauses to see if that’s enough for Sherlock to catch on. He’s _almost_ there, John can practically see the gears in his head turning, just about to get it. 

“I’ll give you a hint: Between the two of us, _I_ wasn’t Prince Charming.” He waits a moment and--yes, there it is, he can see it dawning in Sherlock’s widening eyes. John grins. “ _He_ was.” 

Sherlock’s head thunks sideways against the glass. “Oh, oh of _course_ \--- _your_ sentiment, _his_ cologne---the family issues!--your _husband_ how did I not---” He jerks around suddenly, shoving over into John’s space and John holds still, bemused, as Sherlock scrutinizes him. He seems to be paying particular attention to John’s hair. His face scrunches and he throws himself backwards, sulky. 

“Your sexuality was easy to miss,” he pouts. “It’s entirely hidden underneath all the military indicators.”

John blinks. “Yeah, ah, I left my rainbow jumper at home, sorry.” 

“Oh please.” Sherlock points an accusing finger. “You don’t check out other men--you don’t even style your hair! What am I supposed to make of that!”

John opens his mouth again but fortunately, the cabbie saves the situation from escalating by announcing that they’ve arrived. Sherlock keeps muttering though, even as he pays and they step out. The crime scene isn’t far from where they’re standing, John can see the police lights and officers milling about in front of a house.

“Husband,” Sherlock hisses, jamming his hands into his coat pockets. He heads straight for the police tape. It’s enough to make John want to take pity on him and tell him which things he got right, but Sherlock doesn’t turn back, even when John calls out for him to wait a moment. Fine, be that way, John thinks, hurrying to catch up. 

It’s not easy with his cane, and he’s not expecting it when a female voice snaps out at him. “Hello, freak.” 

He trips hard, just barely managing to catch himself and stay upright. Squinting, he stares hard at a woman standing just on the other side of the police tape. Does he know her? Did they go to school together? He has no idea, the whole school had been in on pulling daily bullshit, he can’t remember every last face. This isn’t fair, he’s just gotten his chance to move on entirely from that life and what are the odds that--

“Hello, Sally,” Sherlock says, and John suddenly realizes---oh. Not him. She wasn’t talking to him, she meant _Sherlock_. Oh.

From the way they’re snarking at each other, it’s clearly a long standing feud, and John has no business getting involved. He stands back a bit, waiting them out, until he’s being formally introduced--as a colleague, no less. 

Sergeant Donovan can’t seem to buy it. “A colleague. How do _you_ get a colleague? What,” she asks John, “did he follow you home?”

John holds back on telling her actually, he’d been the one to follow Sherlock home. “Can we just get to the dead person, please?”

“Certainly.” Sherlock holds the police tape up for him and John ducks under it. Despite her obvious displeasure, the Sergeant lets them follow her towards the house, using her radio to announce Sherlock’s presence, or, ‘the freaks’ presence, at any rate. It’s not his business, John reminds himself. Sherlock can take care of himself and John’s only here to assist on the job. Somehow. 

“Ah, what am I supposed to be doing, exactly?” 

Sherlock ignores his question, instead stopping to trade barbs with a man he calls Anderson. The one who wouldn’t work with Sherlock, John remembers. Right. Ignoring them both, John tries to peer around them into the house. John hopes this is the last pissing contest, they’ll never make it inside at this rate.

Finally. The house looks worse on the inside, so badly dilapidated that it’s obviously been condemned for years. Trying not to brush against anything, John follows Sherlock into a room full of gear and more officers, many of whom are wearing blue Tyvek suits.

Sherlock gestures to a small pile of unused suits. “You’ll need to wear one of these.”

John helps himself to one. Next to him, the officer from the flat is already part way through suiting up. He nods towards John. “Who is this?”

“He’s with me.”

“But who is he?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question. That doesn’t change Sherlock’s answer. “I said, he’s with me.”

Glancing over, John notices that Sherlock hasn’t so much as removed his coat. He hides a smirk. _Other_ people can worry about contamination, not the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. It’s such poor procedure that it makes John wonder for a moment if the man is showing off, making a demonstration out of how many rules he can flout because of how skilled he is, but no one seems to think this is unexpected. No, Sherlock isn’t doing anything special. He’s _always_ like this.

And of course, because this is John’s life, there are more stairs. So many fucking stairs. 

It’s for a good cause, John reminds himself. There’s a (hopefully very) interesting dead person up there. The discomfort is worth it.

When they get there, the victim, Jennifer Wilson, is almost a disappointment. Other than the amount of pink, there’s nothing shocking about her, not that he can see at least. Sherlock on the other hand, seems to think she needs his full attention and kneels down next to the body. Without moving closer John stares hard at her body, trying to see her the way Sherlock must. It’s a wasted effort for the most part; his mind mostly just keeps noting that damn, that is a _lot_ of pink. Watching Sherlock as he pokes around, all focused concentration, is still nice though. 

The officer escorting them doesn’t share John’s patience. “Got anything?” 

Sherlock stands, glancing over at them. John raises an eyebrow as their eyes meet. _Well? Impress me._ Smirking, Sherlock clearly takes it as the combination of challenge and encouragement that it’s meant to be, declaring that he’s got more than enough to start with.

“She’s German,” says a voice from behind John. He turns a bit. Ah, Anderson. The man is leaning against the doorway, doing his best to look intelligent. “Rache. That’s German for revenge, she could be trying to tell us som--”

John just barely manages not to laugh out loud when Sherlock slams the door in Anderson’s face. What a self-important twit. No wonder Sherlock had thought that John, or anyone really, would be better to work with than him.

“So she’s German?”

“Of course she’s not,” Sherlock disparages, eyes trained on his phone He stalks back towards the body. “She’s from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff--so far, so obvious.”

It’s not obvious to John. He squints harder at the body, trying to see past the distracting color. 

“Dr. Watson, what do you think?”

“I think that’s a whole lot of pink,” he blurts, not thinking. “How did no one notice her?”

Sherlock’s tone is clipped. “Not of _that_. Of the _body_ ; you’re a medical man.”

“We have a whole team outside,” the officer protests. And a fat lot of good they are, John doesn’t say. Ignoring the half-hearted argument between the two other men, he moves to kneel next to the body, careful not to brush against it. The door slams behind him and Sherlock crouches down across from him, much less carefully. John picks up the woman’s wrist, examining her hand.

“Well?”

It’s too good to resist. “Well, I’d say in my expert medical opinion, she’s definitely dead.”

That startles a snort out of Sherlock. “A perfectly sound analysis, but I was really rather hoping you’d go deeper.”

“She asphyxiated,” John tells him, turning serious. “Don’t see any wounds, can’t…” he leans over, putting his head near hers. “Yeah, can’t smell any blood or alcohol. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Could have been a seizure, could be drugs, I’d have to--”

Sherlock cuts him off. “You _know_ what it is. You’ve read the papers.”

“I haven’t, actually,” John admits. “Gas Disaster aside, I mean.”

Sherlock stares at him, disbelieving. “The serial suicides. They’ve been all over the news for months, now.”

He shrugs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sorry.”

The officer in charge pops back in, interrupting them. Not that there’s really anything to interrupt, John acknowledges. Sherlock already has plenty of information on the woman and John hasn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. It makes him feel more than a bit useless. What had Sherlock thought he could contribute, why bring him along?

Embarrassment keeps him quiet while Sherlock reels off observation after observation. It all feels a bit pointed, too--her ten years of marriage, her unhappiness, the affairs. It’s strange, but instead of being bitter, he feels bad for her. All that sadness. 

He looks down at his own hand, the ring there appearing as little more than an odd lump under his white glove. What would Jim’s ring show? Had he even worn it when John wasn’t around? Had he kept it, or just thrown it out when he left?

Sherlock shoves past him, breaking up John’s pity party by shouting about a suitcase. The officer walks after him. 

“Sherlock, there was no case!”

John trails out to join the officer at the banister. Below them, Sherlock is already half-way down the stairs, bright and animated. 

“We’ve got a serial killer!” Sherlock claps his hands together then takes off running again, delighted. “Love those. There’s always something to look forward too!”

At least _somebody’s_ happy. The officer’s displeasure is plain and John, having started himself down the stairs one frustrating step at a time, isn’t any better. If Sherlock doesn’t slow down he’s going to---

Leave John. 

Right.

It’s not personal, only practical, John tells himself. Just look at how long it’s taking him to get back to the ground floor and get his stupid blue suit and booties off. John’s having enough trouble staying out of the police’s way; Sherlock doesn’t have time to wait, not when he’s busy chasing his breakthrough about the suitcase. John can’t keep up. 

He’ll never keep up.

Back out on the street, John’s disoriented for a moment. He knows he’s in Brixton, technically, but he can’t remember where, exactly, Brixton is in relation to everything else. He could ask for directions, but...well, he doesn’t really want to remind anyone that he’s here. The best thing to do, he decides, would be to just retrace the taxi’s route; he’s pretty sure he remembers a road with a lot of cars nearby, there’s bound to be a taxi there. Trying to stay unnoticed he heads for the police tape. As he does an awkward sort of dance to hold the tape up, duck under it, and stay upright on his cane all at the same time, another hand reaches out to help him, bringing the barrier up to a much more manageable height. 

“Oh, ta,” he says. Straightening up, he finds himself face to face with one of the people he’d wanted to most avoid. Bollocks.

Sergeant Donovan lets the tape drop as she scrutinizes him. 

“Who _are_ you?”

He knows perfectly well that she’s not asking for his name again. “I’m, ah.” He shrugs. “I’m nobody.” It’s embarrassing, but it’s true. 

“You’re not his friend. He doesn’t _have_ friends.”

He pretty much just said that, thanks. Can the world stop giving John confirmation about how much he doesn’t matter? Please?

He shrugs again. “Yeah. I...I just met him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He really does not want to be having this conversation. She moves closer, like they’re friends sharing a secret, and he clenches his fingers around the handle of his cane, impatient.

“Bit of advice, then: Stay away from that guy.”

John’s spine goes military straight. It reminds him too much of school, of people endlessly trying to warn him off of Jim. He didn’t react well to it then, and he doesn’t now either, though he manages to keep it down to a tight, unfriendly smile.

“Why?”

She’s utterly unbothered by the ice in his voice, instead looking at him like he’s a small child that needs to be taught the dangers of playing with fire.

“You know why he’s here?”

_Because it’s his field of interest and he’s bored_. John opens his mouth and snaps it shut again, biting back the words.

“He’s not paid or anything,” she informs him, which is fair; there’s no reason for her to assume that he already knows that. “He likes it. He gets _off_ on it.”

John’s cold expression folds a bit in puzzlement. He doesn’t understand. What, exactly, does she think she’s warning him about? What’s wrong with that? She must be building up to something.

“The weirder the crime, the more he gets off and you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough.” She meets his eyes, intent on getting through to him, clearly coming to her point. “One day, we’ll be standing ‘round a body, and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.”

Ok, John’s lost now. That string of logic doesn’t pan out, as far as he can tell. True, he’s only known the man for a brief amount of time but John can already tell what drives Sherlock: his interest clearly lies in _solving_ crimes. It wouldn’t be any fun for him to run around putting together a puzzle that he’d laid out himself. It just doesn’t make sense.

“Why would he do that?” 

She misreads his confusion, a bit of kindness shading her manner now that she’s told her hard truth. 

“Because he’s a psychopath,” she says simply. “Psychopaths get bored.”

He hasn’t even have a response for that, stuck in place as she walks away and calls a final warning to him over her shoulder. 

What in the hell? Finally free to continue on his way, he heads towards what he thinks is a busier street. How had all of that--what? How does he even begin to unravel all of that? There’s a vague ringing noise from nearby but it hardly registers as he hobbles along.

People threw the word ‘psychopath’ around far too easily, in John’s opinion. First Jim, now Sherlock--hell, if you went and found anyone John had gone to Secondary School with, he’s sure they’d tell you he was one too. Bloody Secondary School shite, that’s all this was. Did people never grow up? Normal people did all sorts of horrible things to each other every day. They lied, cheated, stole, beat and killed each other all the damn time but the moment they saw someone noticeably different from them, out came the social ostracization and and the labeling. 

‘Freak’. ‘Psychopath’. 

As if _not_ being special gave them a sense of self-security. As if being indistinguishable from the person next to them made them _better_ , somehow. As long as they could feel like they were part of a faceless whole, it made every horrible thing they did alright because they could point to ‘the freaks’ and rationalize that not being ‘like them’ automatically meant that whatever they did was fine. 

People didn’t even understand what a psychopath _was_. John had looked it up, found a checklist one day after Jim had been called that one too many times. He can still remember most of it: superficial charm, chronic lying, an inability to feel or accept guilt, a total lack of empathy that left room for nothing but the most shallow and self-centered of emotions, playing constant mind games with everyone around them, a groundless sense of superiority, the impulsive, violent behavior…

He recognized all of it. His father had been the most perfect example there could be; he’d seen it and suffered from it all for sixteen years. Even his mother and sister had been steeped in it. 

John knew better than anyone exactly what monsters looked like; knew exactly what the true face of ‘normal’ was. 

Swearing, he brings his cane down harder than he needs to with his next step. He hears a startled noise from nearby; he’s no longer alone on the sidewalk, he realizes. People are passing around him and a few feet away the street is full of vehicles. He edges himself carefully to the kerb and puts an arm out, trying his luck for a cab. Two empty ones pass him right by and alright, yelling “Fucking pisspot wankers!” and flipping off the whole street probably isn’t the best way to get one to stop. He puts a hand over his face. Sherlock running off, Sergeant Donovan’s words, his family and school years being dredged up...he needs to calm down.

Jim had always helped with that. He’d never thought John was being ridiculous, getting all worked up even though it was over, never made John feel stupid for having nightmares of his father being inside their flat despite being safe for years. Jim had just tried to give him whatever he needed, whether it was an experiment to blow up, holding him, or just talking at him until John was sufficiently distracted. 

‘Psychopath’, they’d called Jim. A psychopath didn’t build a half-barricade, half-alarm system to put in front of the door on the odd days when John needed to feel just that much safer. 

A distraction. He needs a distraction. It’s been a far better day than he’s had in a long while; Sherlock, the flat. Hell, just came from a bloody crime scene for fuck’s sake; just examined his first murder victim. It’s not at all fair that all the good is getting crowded out by all this rubbish. He tries to drag his focus back to the pink lady, her chipped nails coming to the forefront of his thoughts. She’d been in too much pain to move herself from that spot, unable to do more than use what little strength she had to scratch out a final message. That sad a life, that painful a death--Rachel had to be someone she loved. 

_You hear that, Jim?_ It’s a bitter thought. _You see that? Even people who are literally being murdered leave a note. What the hell is_ your _excuse?_

He tries again for a cab, only to be passed up once more. Stepping back, a ringing sound somehow manages to rise above everything else and catch his attention. There’s a nearby call box trilling away noisily. Odd. Everyone has mobiles now a-days, what outdated soul called a public phone? It stops abruptly as soon as he’s finished passing by. 

Going farther down the street doesn’t improve his luck; he’ll be stuck walking home at this rate. Maybe there’s a bus stop somewhere? He could check on his phone, though first he needs to figure out what street he’s on. 

In his search for the street name, he hits upon another call box. This one too starts ringing as soon as he’s in range. He slows a moment, puzzled, then shrugs it off. Who knows why it’s--huh. The noise stops as soon as he passes, prompting him to pause. Walking backwards, the phone goes off again, sounding strangely insistent. It’s probably just coincidence but...oh hell, why not. He pulls the door open and steps inside to answer it.

“Are you calling _all_ the phone boxes?”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

The voice on the other end of the line is cold, threatening. Unsettled, it makes John pause for a moment. Logically, what he should do is hang up and walk away. It would be the most sensible thing to do. 

“What’s that?”

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

Never mind hanging up, he shouldn’t have answered it in the first place. Trying not to look as alarmed as he feels, he looks up at the camera. It wiggles a bit, like the caller is making sure he’s got John’s attention. He needn’t worry. John’s definitely paying attention.

“I see it.”

“Watch.”

As instructed, John watches the camera turn away, putting him in it’s blind spot. Who could have that sort of power? Why would they focus it on John? An image of the pink lady flashes through his mind and John quickly dismisses it. He’s known Sherlock all of a few hours. There’s no way the two things can be connected.

“There’s another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

“You know I do,” John snaps.

The voice remains irritatingly unaffected by his tone. “And finally, at the top of the building to your right.”

Same as the first two, the camera turns away from John. Not only is the caller powerful, but they’ve put John in the middle of a dead zone, he realizes. It can’t mean anything good for him. It also doesn’t make any sense.

“Why are you doing this? Why me?” 

“Get into the car, Doctor Watson.” The voice takes on an oily superiority as the aforementioned car pulls up in front of the phone box. “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

Oh, the danger is clear, John thinks. The situation itself very much isn’t. The voice has a point though, the man that’s stepped out of the utterly nondescript car is equally bland but most certainly armed. He can’t run and there’s no point in trying to cause a scene without the cameras to record it. All he can do is go along with it and stay alert.

Not to mention that underneath his sense of self-preservation he’s, well. Quite intrigued. What makes him worth this kind of effort? Or is this nothing more than a milk run to whoever’s kidnapping him?

He slides in and waits, but the woman in the seat next to him doesn’t so much as glance at him, focusing instead on what seems like endless texting on her mobile. It gives him an idea; he could, possibly, get out his own and try to make a call or send a text, let someone know he’s being kidnapped. Sherlock, for instance, may have forgotten that John exists but surely he’d take an active crime in progress over solving one about an already dead person. Actually, he realizes, Sherlock is the _only_ person he could call. 

Except he can’t. John closes his eyes, sagging in his seat. He doesn’t have Sherlock’s number. He could try the police, but...no. Besides, there’s no guarantee that the woman won’t simply take his phone away from him and throw it out the window. Sure, she looks smaller and more delicate than him, but given the situation there’s nothing to say she’s not some kind of ninja assassin. (John’s seen his share of Bond movies; he knows about this sort of thing.) At the very least she’s certainly not concerned that he’ll try anything---he might as well not even be there, for all the notice she’s taken of him. She’s got the advantage here and she knows it. He’s well and truly stuck. 

The least he can do is take note of landmarks as they go, so he spends a lot of time looking out the window until they finally pull into an abandoned parking garage. Ahead of them, the headlights illuminate what appears to be a man with a cane whose holding himself like a villain in a spy movie. The driver opens the door for John who obligingly gets out, which gives him a clear view of the man. Not a cane, then. An umbrella.

He’s been grabbed off the street after being chased by calls to phone boxes and brought to a shady underground parking lot for a meeting with a mysterious, dramatically poised man holding an _umbrella_. 

Clearly this is a very serious situation and not at all ridiculous.

The man uses his umbrella to point at a chair in front of him. “Have a seat, John.”

Right. Even if John had been inclined to put himself at a disadvantage like that, the confirmation that this smarmy git is the voice on the phone and not another lacky would have put an end to that. He ignores the instruction.

“You know, I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that,” John offers. “But ah. You could just phone me. You know. On my phone.”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” 

So this _is_ about Sherlock. A small part of John relaxes. It explains a lot in regards to how elaborate this all is and...well, a tiny part of John knew that the only other thing that made him special was Jim. If that’s what this had been about John’s not sure what he would have done, or would have even been able to do.

John bats away another command for him to sit and the man’s condescending smirk grows.

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John fires back.

That gets him an exaggerated, false laugh. John feels a muscle twitch near his mouth. This man is going out of his way first to kidnap him then to mock him. Even if he hadn’t, John’s finding him to be just plain irritating.

“The bravery of the soldier...bravery by far is the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“You did all that, with the cameras and the phones, but you can’t figure that out yourself?”

“Why not tell me in your own words,” the man invites, giving him a thin smile. “After all, it’s all happened so quickly--meeting, moving in together...even going to _crime scenes_ together. You’re moving on from your husband rather easily, wouldn’t you say?” 

John’s expression twists horribly before he can stop it. It doesn’t mean anything, he reminds himself. Mr. Poppins here is just trying to intimidate him with how much he knows, looking for buttons to push and keep him off balance.

“Who doesn’t love a man with a riding crop?” John shrugs. “Swept me right off my feet, what can I say.”

“You must have noticed that that’s hardly the reaction most people have. I’m sure you’ve been warned off by now.”

“Sort of a running theme, yeah. You doing the same? As another ‘old friend’ of his?” 

“Friend?” There’s another gratingly false laugh. “You’ve met him, how many ‘friends’ do you think he has? No, I’m the closest thing Sherlock Holmes can have to a friend.”

“Which is?”

“An enemy.” The man shifts, drawing himself up to his full height, his expression turning sly. “His _arch enemy_ , I’m sure he’d say.” 

This is going nowhere. He’s not going to get any sort of explanation out of the man and despite all the scare tactics, John’s feeling more and more certain that he could just walk off without any consequences. Despite the promising start, things are getting strangely boring strangely fast. Someone who could display this much power was obviously dangerous, and John does feel the pressure of the situation, but it’s looking more and more like it’s all just for show. Not like it’s life threatening, at least; harming him isn’t what this man is after. Should he go? 

“Arch enemy,” he repeats, stalling. 

“He does love to be dramatic.”

John snorts. “So you’re well matched, then. Is that what you two are fighting over, the crown for biggest drama queen?”

Thankfully, before they can go in more circles, his phone chimes and he reaches for it reflexively. 

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

“I hope I’m not distracting you,” the man says, clearly unhappy that John’s attention is elsewhere.

It’s a sign, John decides. Might be a bit risky if he’s misjudged the situation, but he’s done with this. Besides, it’ll be good to see what happens if he pushes. 

“You are, actually,” John says, putting the phone away. “Sorry, but I’ve got to be off. Places to go, things to do, you know how it is.”

A pinched look of displeasure comes over the man’s features, his mouth turning down like he’s bitten into a lemon. The cold, threatening tone from before reappears. “You really think you can leave. Just like that.” 

“Ah, yeah? Good luck with that whole arch enemy thing though.” 

Turning, starts hobbling back to the car and hopes he won’t get shot. He doesn’t stop at the car, instead heading straight for the exist. 

“Doctor Watson! You haven’t even heard my offer.”

John waves his free hand, not bothering to pause. “Don’t need to, thanks!”

“Don’t be stubborn. Take the car.”

That does work to bring John up short. It would be the smart thing to do. He’s even more lost than before and _does_ want to get home, or at least back to Baker Street sometime tonight. His phone chimes again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

John considers for a moment, then texts back. 

_Kidnapped by git with umbrella._

“Doctor Watson?”

The response is almost instantaneous. _Take the money. SH_

John was right, then. Not a danger, at least not at the moment. He heads back to the car where Mr. Poppins stands waiting. Next to him, the woman with the blackberry seems as oblivious as ever.

“Your offer?”

“Money. For information.” The man twirls his umbrella, unaffected by John’s earlier dismissal. “You live comfortably at the moment, true...but if you accept, I can make you rich.”

“Information on Sherlock?”

The man smiles, condescending. Tosser. “Nothing indiscreet, I promise you. Nothing that you would feel uncomfortable with.”

John doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “Sure.”

He gets a narrow look. “Really.” 

“Yeah. Whatever you want. Discreet, indiscreet, number of bathroom runs, whatever you want. We can work out the payment details later.”

The man’s eyes flick briefly to the phone in John’s pocket and his expression shutters. “Ah. Of course.” With that, he turns neatly on his heel, apparently just as finished as John is. 

“I’m to take you home,” the woman says, not looking up from her phone. “Address?”

“Baker Street,” John says, sliding himself into the car. He rethinks that as she gets in next to him, eyes still on her phone. “Actually, could we stop off somewhere first?”

“Sure.”

It’s a quiet ride to his flat where he packs a few basic overnight things as fast as he can--he’s likely not coming back tonight. Might as well be prepared to stay at his new home. 

He takes the gun, too. The umbrella man may not have been dangerous, but Sherlock certainly seems to attract a certain type, and it can’t hurt to be prepared.

Mrs. Hudson lets him in at Baker Street. “Oh how lovely, you came back!”

“Sherlock couldn’t let me in?”

“Oh.” She waves a hand. “I don’t mind this one time. I think I heard him yelling about something earlier, but…” she shrugs. “Hold on a moment, I’ll get you a key.”

She’s back with one quickly enough and key in hand, John makes his way up the stairs. Strange. It’s a little easier this time. 

The door is already open and Sherlock, it appears, is very busy becoming one with the sofa. John stares at him for a moment.

“Seriously? I was all the way across London, getting kidnapped by some--some fanboy of yours and you can’t even answer the door?”

“You’re fine, aren’t you?”

John snorts, dropping his overnight bag on the coffee table. “Yeah. Don’t think we’ll be seeing that money though.” 

“You never know. He might actually go through with it this time.”

“Oh yeah?” John wanders over the window, peeking out. He can’t see anything out of place, but that doesn’t mean anything. He steps away. “Who was he, anyway? Other than your arch enemy of dramatics, I mean. I can’t just keep calling him ‘Mr. Poppins’ in my head.”

Sherlock shifts on the sofa to look at him, confused. “Mr. Poppins?”

“Yeah. You know. Like Mary Poppins.” John waves his hands around. “Works as a nanny, flies  
around using an umbrella? Just a spoonful of sugar?” Sherlock still looks lost. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is if you’re Mary Poppins.” He sighs. “Look, who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met,” Sherlock says ominously, getting up from the couch to walk over the coffee table. He barely avoids knocking off John’s bag. “And _not_ our problem right now.”

“Dramatic,” John mutters, but follows him over to the two arm chairs. Sherlock hoists up a pink rolling suitcase, depositing it on a chair in front of him. He opens it with a flourish then frowns. 

_Pink_.

“Oh. Oh, of _course_.” John feels like an idiot. “Where did you--”

“John!” Sherlock interrupts. He points. “I need you to send a text.”

“You couldn’t do it yourself?” he asks blankly. 

“No. My number’s on the website, there’s too high a chance it’ll be recognized.”

John opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and shuts it, getting out his phone instead. “Who are we texting?”

Sherlock waves in the general direction of a stack of papers, rifling through the suitcase's contents with the other. “Number’s over there. Put it in and I’ll tell you what to say.”

Curious, John does so, along with with the message Sherlock gives him.

_What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland St. Please come._

“Any particular reason I’m texting a dead woman?”

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. “Well if it’s not in her case, and it’s not on her body, where do you _think_ it is?”

“She could have dropped it, left it somewhere…” Sherlock gives him a look, clearly putting John’s mental abilities just above that of a toddler. 

“Right, right.” John shuffles back over and drops himself down in the seat across from Sherlock. He thinks about it for a moment, then frowns. “But why would the murderer hang on to her phone? Wouldn’t he throw it out like the suitcase?”

“It’s not in her case and it wasn’t in the skip, of course he still has it.”

“The skip?” John shift forward in his seat. “Wait. You went running off like that to rummage through _trash_?”

“Of course I did,” Sherlock says, because right, who _wouldn’t_ be excited about diving into a pile of rubbish? “The killer drove her to Lauriston Gardens and forgot he had her suitcase in the car. It would only taken him about five minutes to realize his mistake so I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car within that radius. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“Huh.” John leans back, his previous hurt somewhat mollified. “Well, that’s not so bad then.”

“What isn’t?”

“That you ran off like that. Bit of a blow to ego, that sort of thing.”

“Oh please, I knew you’d come back to Baker Street. There was no sense in _both_ of us going.”

“ _I_ didn’t know that. Now I do, and I am perfectly fine with not having dug through trash.”

Sherlock huffs and re-situates himself, crouching on the chair. “Don’t be squeamish.”

“There’s nothing squeamish about not wanting to be covered in trash. It’s perfectly reasonable.”

“Squeamish.”

John narrows his eyes. “It’s _not_ \---”

His phone rings, redirecting his attention. He frowns at the blocked number.

“Is...is that the killer? They’re actually calling back?”

“It has to be,” Sherlock says, pleased. “If someone had simply found the phone, they would ignore a text like that. The murderer, on the other hand, getting a text that can only be from his victim, only a few hours after he’s left her? _He_ would panic.”

He’d panic badly enough to actually call back? John would expect that someone who’d killed four people and gotten away with it would be brighter than that.

“Do I answer it?”

Sherlock is already standing up and throwing on his coat. “Don’t be ridiculous. Answer it, honestly. No, we go to Northumberland Street.”

“Not the police?”

“Four people are dead, there’s no time to talk to the police.”

John’s pretty sure that’s not true--there’s no reason that Sherlock couldn’t phone up that Inspector and ensure some kind of police presence to wait for the murder but, well. He’s not going to argue. It’s more fun this way, after all. More of an adventure.

Besides, after meeting the officers Sherlock works with, he’s not exactly eager to see them any sooner than he has to.

“As long as we’re not hiding in the garbage to wait,” he says, standing.

“Honestly,” Sherlock sighs, sounding rather put upon, “you should really let that go.” His mouth curls into a small, teasing smirk. “You’d think an army doctor would have done worse things.”

He heads out the door and John hurries after him, his thoughts more on the case than the stairs, as they go. A car, the murder had gotten all his victims into cars, an unremarkable one, if he could pull into little side places without being noticed…

“Where _are_ we waiting?” he asks as they cross the street. 

“Northumberland Street, it’s a five minute walk from here.”

Five minute walk for _you_ John thinks. Not everyone has ridiculously long legs or steady strides; his leg isn’t at more than a residual level of pain, but he’s still having to hurry just to keep up.

“He was stupid enough to call back, but do you really think he’ll be stupid enough to show up? Especially since he didn’t get an answer.”

“Stupid enough?” Sherlock laughs, happy to be in his element. “No, I think he’s _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones, they’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“Doesn’t sound very brilliant to me. Anyone can commit a crime or kill. The smart part is getting away with it.”

“Ah, but then there’s no _appreciation_ ,” Sherlock tells him knowingly. “This type, they need applause, to have their moment in the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John: It needs an audience.”

There’s some truth there, John knows. Jim had always needed John’s validation so badly. Maybe some would call that pure ego but John didn’t think so. There was more to it than that. For one, if simple adoration was all he wanted, he could have gotten that from anyone---instead, John’s feeling had always been the only ones that mattered. Jim hadn’t wanted John to just be impressed but _happy_ with what Jim did, had wanted to _share_ his brilliance with John in a way that went beyond simple ego stroking. 

Until he’d started hiding it, sharingly only results and never the actual doings. Until he’d seen John’s unhappiness and kept going anyway. John doesn’t know what to call that, doesn’t know how to understand it. Maybe that had been when it started, the slow realization that John wasn’t all that special, that his thoughts and feelings weren’t worthwhile.

“Think!”

John starts a bit. Right. Sherlock is still talking, has no idea that John hasn’t been listening. This one doesn’t seem to care who listens or doesn’t, as long as he gets to voice his thoughts aloud.

“Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them?”

John blurts out the his first thought. “Um, police?”

Sherlock waves it away. “No, no, that draws attention. No one saw them go, no one noticed them or their abductor. This is someone we never think of, someone who can hunt in the middle of a crowd.”

“Who then?”

“Haven’t the faintest.” He changes direction abruptly, heading towards a restaurant. “Hungry?”

He is, actually. It’s strange, John’s spent months now trying to choke down food, but as soon as he’s hit by the aroma of Italian food, he feels utterly famished. Solving crime is good for the appetite, apparently.

They’re barely seated and Sherlock’s already staring out at the street like a cat watching a bird. 

“He’s not just going to ring the doorbell. He’d have to be mad.”

“He _has_ killed four people.”

“You don’t have to be mad to do that,” John points out reasonably. Really, he thought someone like Sherlock would already know that.

For some reason that redirects Sherlock’s attention back to him, all that scrutinizing focus, like he’s missed something about John, something vital, and can’t figure out what it is. John’s used to getting looked at like he’s said something odd, but he hadn’t expected that from Sherlock. John blinks back at him, confused. 

“What? What did I say?”

A large, bearded man takes that moment to break Sherlock’s concentration.

“Sherlock!” The man sticks a beefy arm across the table, giving Sherlock’s hand a vigorous shake then starts passing out menus. He looks absolutely delighted. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and your date!”

John pauses, looking up from his menu, because what? 

“I’m not his date.”

The man doesn’t seem to hear him, too busy extolling about Sherlock.

“This man got me off a murder charge!”

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock tells him. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house breaking.” 

Lestrade? That must be the Detective Inspector from earlier. Good to finally have a name for him. 

John shakes Angelo’s hand. “How nice.”

Angelo seems to think it’s _very_ nice. He sweeps his hands to the sides. “He cleared my name!”

“I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?”

“Nothing.” Angelo leans back down towards John. “But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You _did_ go to prison.”

Angelo ignores that, instead giving John a wink as he shuffles away. “I’ll get a candle for the table. More romantic.”

John can _feel_ his expression shut down. 

“I’m not his date!”

No one seems to notice. Instead, Sherlock just tells him to go ahead and eat and Angelo goes right ahead and deposits a lit candle on their table, even going so far as to give him a thumbs up.

“I’m not---” John puts his head down for a moment and breathes deeply. The candle glows merrily, mocking him. He glares at it. Maybe he can use it to burn this place down.

It’s just--it’s not fair. He spent a _lifetime_ with Jim and went through seven different kinds of hell for it. He barely needs both hands to count how many people have been supportive of his relationship; the rest of the world has never given John anything but endless shite fot it from start to finish. He’d never walked into a restaurant with Jim and been automatically offered a more romantic setting, he’d never gone out with him to look at a flat and had it assumed that they were together, he’d never---any of it.

And now here is with someone that he’s known less than a day and everyone keeps assuming they’re having some fairytale romance. 

He _had_ that fairytale romance. Why the hell couldn’t he have gotten this sort of treatment too? Why couldn’t the rest of the world have been as happy for him as he was? 

“I said, you might as well eat.”

John looks up. “What? Oh.”

He’s hardly in the mood to anymore, but he probably should anyway, so he nods his agreement. 

“Anything in particular that’s good?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s food and it’s all up to code. The alfredo is usually the fastest.”

Right. He’ll just go with that then.

It’s not until he’s served, with another wink from Angelo, that he realizes that perhaps there _is_ a reason behind the assumptions. Twining some pasta around his fork he takes a bite, trying to figure out how to best approach the topic.

“So, you’ve taken your boyfriends here before?”

“I don’t have boyfriends.”

“Er.” John clears his throat. “Girlfriends, then? Or--whoever?”

Sherlock is staring at him. “I don’t have any of those. Not really my area.”

“I just. Hmm.” He drags his fork around the plate awkwardly, then decides to just be outright about it and winds up speaking at the same time as Sherlock, their words running over each other.

“I’m just saying I’m not--”

“John, if you’re trying to--”

They both pause. Sherlock motions at him to go first.

“I just want us both on the same page: Is this supposed to be a date? Because single or not, I still consider myself married.”

“And I consider myself married to my work.”

John motions with his fork. “So, this isn’t…”

Sherlock scoffs at him, turning back to the window. “John, your lack of interest was so clear I couldn’t even tell you were gay, and I’m personally not interested in _anyone_. It’s hardly my problem if people insist on assuming otherwise.”

Relieved, John huffs a laugh. “No socks on the doorknobs or ‘special’ guests for us then. That’ll make things easier.”

A brief, thin smile appears on Sherlock’s face. “Quite.”

John eats in silence for a while until something occurs to him and he pauses, worried.

“That umbrella man. The one obsessing over you. Is he someone who hasn’t quite gotten the message?”

The horror that twists Sherlock’s face is almost comical.”Oh _god_ no. No.”

Good. A puffed up, obsessive arch-enemy in crime was one thing, a person who didn’t understand that their advances weren’t welcome in particular areas was a whole different story. 

“Just some criminal mastermind, then?”

Sherlock sighs heavily, sagging, as if even just the reminder of the man’s existence wearies him, then bolts upright.

“What?”

“Taxi. Across the street.” The cat-watching-a-bird look is back, with Sherlock hardly so much as blinking. If he had a tail, John’s sure he’d be thumping it. “No one getting in, no one getting out.”

John turns to look as well. Sure enough, there’s a taxi idling in front of 22 Northumberland with a man in the backseat. 

“Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?”

It’s surprising, to say the least. John hadn’t actually expected anyone to show up. But apparently, all of Sherlock’s ideas had been right. Still, bringing a witness? Unless he didn’t think the driver would be a problem for some reason…?

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock hisses.

“You’re staring.”

“Well we can’t _both_ stare.”

Just like that, Sherlock’s up and out the door without even getting his coat on. John barely has enough time to grab his own and rush out after him. They’re still not fast enough---the taxi starts pulling away and Sherlock gets hit by a car.

Hit by. A car.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, even going so far as use his momentum of sliding off the hood to further propel himself. 

“Are you--” John’s not sure how he plans to finish that sentence. Are you ok? Are you mad? Are you incapable of crossing the street by yourself? 

They manage the remaining distance without further incident but the taxi’s already too far away for them to reach on foot. At least he’s got the cab’s number--only Sherlock doesn’t care about that. 

He watches as Sherlock hunches a bit, putting his hands up and squeezing his eyes shut, muttering to himself. It looks like a cross between someone with bowel trouble and a low grade seizure. He feels a flicker of concern; maybe Sherlock _isn’_ alright? Except then he realizes what Sherlock’s saying. 

“...right turn, pedestrian crossing, left turn only…”

He’s fine.

...and off running again. Determined to keep up this time, John takes off after him, banging into people as they go.

Up flight after flight of stairs, over rooftops. John’s gotten up to plenty of shenanigans in his time, but he’s never actually _jumped across rooftops_ before. It’s exhilarating and he pushes harder, never more than a few steps behind Sherlock, following the billow of his coat and trusting that the other man knows where he’s going. 

Sherlock ends the chase by stopping the cab with his body. Literally with his body, he just _throws_ himself in front of and onto it, his own momentum and that of the car coming together to slam him onto the hood. The doctor part of John’s mind makes a note to check his ribs later, clearly Sherlock is not be trusted around moving vehicles.

“Police!” Sherlock gasps, producing a badge. “Open her up!”

It’s the wrong person. A man just in from California. Sherlock tosses off a “Welcome to London!” and John shuts the cab door without a word. They head up the street, still trying to catch their breath.

“Welcome to London? Really?” He laughs,adrenaline and the absurdity of the situation catching up with him. “He’ll certainly have a story to tell when he gets home.”

“As the police, we had every right to stop him.” Sherlock flashes the badge again. “The route the cabbie was taking was absolutely criminal.”

John lets out an undignified snort. “Where did you get that?”

“Lestrade. I pick-pocket him when he’s being annoying.”

“So you’ve got a lot of them, then.”

“A drawer full.”

Giggling, John glances back down the street. The Californian is talking to an actual, uniformed police officer now, pointing over at them.

“Don’t think he believed us.”

“Apparently not.”

John grins at Sherlock. “I take it we’re running again?”

“Seems like it.”

The journey home is much more tame, thanks to the fact that they stay ground level and Sherlock doesn’t throw himself in front of anymore cars. It’s fun, silly in a way he hardly recognizes anymore. Still, John hasn’t treated his body well for the last few months, and by the time they reach Baker Street he’s pretty much done for the day. They push through the front door like school children and John feels giddier than he has in far too long. 

“That was the single most ridiculous thing I’ve done in years,” he laughs, panting. “ _Years_.”

“Well yes,it’s been a while since you invaded Afghanistan.”

A fresh waves of giggles comes over him. “I’ll have you know that wasn’t just me.”

He takes a few moments to breathe. He feels like he’s forgetting something.

“Shouldn’t we have gone back to Angelo’s?”

That’s not quite it. It niggles at him, even as Sherlock dismisses the whole expedition as “just a way to pass the time”. John snorts. 

“Just passing time. Right after you’d said there wasn’t enough time to go to the police? Admit it--you’re making it up as you go along.”

“I was also proving a point.”

“What point?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, which doesn’t explain anything thanks, then yells to Mrs. Hudson that John will be taking the upstairs bedroom.

“Well we knew that,” John says. 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “The man at the door has a bit more to tell you.”

On cue, someone does indeed knock on the door. God save John from drama queens.

“Are you kidding me,” he mutters, but goes to answer it all the same.

Angelo is standing there.

With John’s cane.

It hits him so hard that John doesn’t even bother wondering how Sherlock had managed to text and run at the same time without John noticing. 

He doesn’t feel any pain.

And yes, he’s done this before, but he’d _noticed_. It had been there, a constant awareness that he wasn’t using it, an ever present worry that he’d have to use it again at any moment. This time he’d just...gone.

And it hadn’t taken a bomb, or a street full of dying people. All there’d been was Sherlock, and John’s need to keep up with him.

“Thank you.”

John doesn’t really want to take the cane back but he does anyway. It feels too much like an admission that he’ll need it again when he hopes, god he hopes...It’ll come down to Sherlock, he understands. As long as there are cases, as long as the man keeps things “interesting” enough, he won’t have to touch this thing ever again.

Inside, Sherlock is smiling at him.

This too, John understands. 

_Look at what I can do for you._

_You need me._

_Please stay._

_I’ve been so lonely for so long._

John may be married and Sherlock may not be inclined in that area but they both still need human companionship. He nods and says it again, to Sherlock this time. 

“Thank you.”

Sherlock’s expression falters, like he’s just realized how much of him John can see and is surprised, like he didn’t mean for any of it to show.

John tilts his head. Why would Sherlock be surprised? After all---

“Oh, Sherlock! What have you done!”

Mrs. Hudson is bearing down on them. She doesn’t appear to be hurt, but she’s crying. It alarms John in a wholly unexpected way; he has no particular reason to care about her. 

“Upstairs,” she says, motioning with a used tissue. 

They go hurtling to their flat, only to find it already full of people. Police officers, specifically. In the middle of it all, Detective Inspector Lestrade sits in Sherlock’s chair like a king. Sherlock heads straight for him, all but hissing like a wet cat.

“What are you doing?”

“Well I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade says, unbothered, “I’m not stupid.”

“You can’t just break into my flat!”

“You can’t withhold evidence! And I didn’t break in.”

It certainly seems like they broke in. All around them, officers are searching through everything they can reach. Given the state of the place, it hardly makes a difference. On the coffee table next to the couch his own small bag of things has been haphazardly dumped out and rifled through. John stands a little straighter, quite glad he hadn’t left his gun in it. That would have been a bit difficult to explain.

“---drugs bust!”

Wait what.

“Are you fu--are you serious?” John blurts. “ _This_ guy, use drugs? Have you met him?” 

“John,” Sherlock says, voice low.

“I’m pretty sure you could search all day and not find anything recreational,” John ploughs on, because really, someone like Sherlock, an addict? It’s laughable. “I doubt there’s even _alcohol_ in here!”

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock warns, inches away from him.

It doesn’t make sense. “But come on--”

“John!”

Sherlock’s face is set, tight. Holy shite. There _are_ drugs in here. Or there were, at least. John stares back at him, baffled.

He can’t help but ask the first thing that springs to mind. “Doesn’t that interfere with your brain?” 

Sherlock’s face pinches tighter. “Shut up.”

John shuts up. It’s the least he can do, he supposes. He can’t keep expecting Sherlock to share the same behaviors and rationales as Jim; at best it’ll be disappointing, at worst, dangerous.

Sherlock goes back to arguing with Lestrade and John casts around the room with new eyes. If he were Sherlock and hiding drugs, where would he put them? His first thought is the skull which, huh. It’s not on the mantle anymore, someone’s moved it. Hopefully it’s not broken.

The thing is though, they’re not really looking for drugs and everyone knows it. What they want is the pink case. Given that it’s right there, out in the open, any continued presence--their volunteered presence, at that--is for no other purpose than to act like dicks in return for Sherlock’s treatment of them. The thought of it happening after he’s moved in worries him for a moment until he remembers that thanks to Jim, he hasn’t got much of anything to hide. 

Sherlock seems less concerned about anything being found than he is about the situation itself; the flat being full of people, all of them making noise, touching his things and moving them around, even his chair being the one that Lestrade’s sat himself in. It’s ramping him up in a way that’s more than mere annoyance.

“Are these human eyes?” Sergeant Donovan stands just outside the kitchen, holding a jar.

“Put those back!” Sherlock snaps.

“They were in the microwave,” she informs him, disgusted.

“It’s an experiment!”

John considers. Another expectation he’ll have to adjust there. The skull, now eyeballs--he hasn’t looked in the fridge but he’s pretty sure that when he does he’ll find more human body parts. So, less technology, more cadavers. Not a problem, really. In fact, it’ll probably take up less space, so that’s good.

Sherlock and Lestrade go back to sniping at each other, the Inspector finally standing up as Sherlock paces. It’s clear how much the invasion is bothering him, each bit of space that’s being combed through making him more agitated than it should, like he’s holding back the need to shout them all out of his space and away from his things. John feels like he should do something but doesn’t know how to help so he does nothing out of the fear of simply making it worse. Finally, Lestrade throws out a lifeline.

“We found Rachel.”

Sherlock instantly grabs hold. “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s daughter.”

“Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name?”

The forensics idiot from before decides to talk over them, as if he has something useful to contribute, pointing out that Sherlock _must_ be the killer, because he has the pink suitcase, and Sherlock is a psychopath.

It’s amazing. It always is, to meet someone this dumb. 

Sherlock whirls on him. “I’m not a psychopath, Anderson,” he hisses, “I’m a high functioning sociopath, do your research.”

“You’re not.” They all turn on John now, who, oops. He’d been meaning to stay quiet. He clears his throat. “You’re not either one. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

His being a doctor has almost nothing to do with his knowing that, but he’s found it to be a phrase that blinds people into letting him get away with a great many things.

Sherlock decides to ignore him for the moment, focusing instead on finding out more about Rachel. Obviously, he needs to speak to her. Immediately.

“She’s dead,” Lestrade tells him.

“Excellent!” Sherlock enthuses. “How, when, why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”

“I doubt it, she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive.”

A stillborn daughter. John had been right, Rachel was someone Jennifer Wilson loved. Possibly the only person she’d had left to love. The unhappy marriage...clearly, her husband hadn’t shared the sentiment. A parent that loved their child was a rare enough thing, it wasn’t fair to make that parent suffer through losing them. John tries to imagine it, that much pain, how alone she must have felt in both life and death. It’s terrible.

Sherlock looks lost, his inability to understand making him seem strangely young for a moment.

“No, no, that’s not right. Why would she do that? _Why_?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson breaks in again. “Not a sociopath. Sure, I’m really seeing that.”

Sherlock has a good point though---scratching the name into the floor with her nails was a far cry from just thinking about her daughter. He resumes his pacing, passing back and forth between them. 

“The poison could have made her do it,” John reasons. “Maybe she was hallucinating, she might have imagined something that pushed her into thinking that it was necessary.”

“We analyzed every bit of what we found in the other victims,” Lestrade says, “never found any trace of hallucinogens.”

Damn. There’s only one other thing he can think of, though he’s pretty sure it has more to do with himself than the killer and his victims. Still, it can’t hurt to say it.

“You said, they take the pills themselves, right? He doesn’t force it down their throats?” There’s a vague mutter of assent from Sherlock as he passes by again. “Well, if suicide is the whole point, then maybe he knows what type of victim he’s looking for. He waits and when he comes across someone that’s already in that mindset and half-way there, he gives them the means and pushes them the rest of the way. Her marriage, her daughter--she couldn’t have been a very happy person.”

Sherlock makes a noise of frustration, stopping in front of him. “Her daughter was _ages_ ago, John,” he says. “Why would she still be upset?”

“Sometimes parents love their children,” John explains, patient. It’s not Sherlock’s fault he doesn’t understand. “And sometimes it’s not a simple, casual love, the way people are about say, their cars or their favorite shoes, but a deep, unconditional love. That child becomes their whole world before it’s even born and that love lasts for the rest of their lives, even if they outlive the child. In fact, that often makes the emotion even more intense, especially when they know they’re the only one that feels that way.”

There’s dead silence all around them. Sherlock squints at him. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean.” John shrugs. “I’ve only ever seen it with both of them alive, but I know what it would mean for that parent if their child died, even though they’re an adult.”

Sherlock thinks about this a moment then shakes it off, getting right in John’s face, urgently trying to get through to him.

“ _Think_ about it, John. If _you_ were dying, if _you’d_ been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?”

John’s already been there, done that, remembers exactly what he was thinking while his shoulder burned hotter than the sun above him, eyes shut tight against sand and tears. He’s thought it again a hundred times since then and it’s out of his mouth practically on automatic.

“I’m sorry, Jim.”

A second of confusion passes over Sherlock’s face as he mouth the name to himself before he connects the dots. Disgust twists his features and he rocks back, disappointed. 

“Oh for god’s sake, John. Is _everything_ about your husband?”

John’s spine stiffens, fully aware of how pathetic Sherlock finds his situation. Maybe it _is_ pathetic, but that’s no reason to admit it right now. His fingers clench tightly together, locked behind his back, and he makes himself meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Problem?”

Sherlock lets out an exasperated breath, looking heavenward for divine intervention before regrouping and moving back into John’s space.

“Pretend you’re smart, John. Pretend you’re clever, _really_ clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers for all those years? She had to be. She was trying to _tell_ us something.”

Point made, he resumes his pacing, the strange silence still prevailing over the flat, broken only by Mrs. Hudson, come to tell Sherlock his taxi is here.

“I didn’t order a taxi, go away.”

There’s something there about the taxi, something just out of John’s focus, his mind too close to thoughts of dying, the moment when he thought he’d most failed Jim, thought he’d-- 

He busies himself with seeing to Mrs. Hudson’s fussing. Apparently telling her that it’s a drugs bust isn’t the best way to go about things, it only makes her more alarmed.

“They’re just for my hip,” she tells him. “They’re herbal soothers!”

Well. That’s good to know.

It’s also the final straw. Sherlock’s need to burst out yelling, the one John had seen him holding back earlier, finally explodes in demands for stillness, silence, and for the forensic idiot Anderson to turn around and face away. 

Lestrade had known exactly what he doing, John realizes. It shows in the way he now backs Sherlock’s demands, even telling Anderson to do as he’s told and face away. He knew perfectly well how the mix of mess, noise and activity would press on Sherlock and had used it to full advantage.

It seems to have worked because after shouting Mrs. Hudson away, an epiphany visibly arrives and John tries to put his concentration on it, wanting Sherlock and his newest discovery to drown out the rest of his head. 

“She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead,” Sherlock tells them, joyous. “She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it, she _planted_ it on him!” 

Well, they’ve gone and ruined whatever she hoped they’d get out of that, John thinks. There’s no way the killer still has the phone, not after they’d texted him, alerting him to its presence. John doesn’t think it wise to remind Sherlock of that though, not with the police around, on the hunt for evidence. 

“Rachel,” he says, looking around like he’s hoping for them to catch on and join in at any moment.“ _Rachel_ , don’t you see?”

No one does. John closes his eyes, his impatience rising.

“Just tell us, Sherlock. Stop dragging it out.”

Sherlock doesn’t. Instead, he just announces that the name is not, in fact, a name, and directs John to read off the email address attached to the suitcase. Even the writing is pink, and for a moment John wonders if Jennifer Wilson’s near obsession with the color is a simple preference, or a type of connection to her daughter. A little baby girl, lots of pink. Her mourning would have been constant and invisible.

It doesn’t matter now, because the name is a password and in a few moments, they’ll be able to track her phone. John slides over to where Sherlock sits in front of his laptop, putting his mouth near the other man’s ear.

“He’d have to be pretty stupid to still have it, don’t you think?” he says, pointedly.

“Well we won’t know until we look, will we,” Sherlock replies, his tone just as sharply edged.

Sighing, John steps back and Mrs. Hudson comes hurrying up the steps behind them, still jittery.

“Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver…”

Getting up, Sherlock tries to send her off again, saying something John can’t hear. Dismissing it as unimportant, he turns back to the screen, sitting down in front of it. It won’t work, he’s sure. The murderer would have to be a complete idiot to have kept it. Or, he supposes, completely mad, as Sherlock thinks but then Sherlock had also seemed confident that the killer would show up to meet him, and while it had been fun, that hadn’t exactly panned out. 

Finally, the map loads and it...doesn’t make any sense. According to the GPS, the phone is in their building. He calls Sherlock over from his hushed conversation with Lestrade. John points, Sherlock hanging over his shoulder.

“What do you make of that?”

“How can it be here?” Sherlock backs away, turning in a slow circle. “How?”

Lestrade suggests that Sherlock lost it, dropped it out of the case somehow. Since Sherlock’s lost in thought, John goes ahead and shoots that down, telling him that they’d texted the number and someone had called back. They might get in trouble for it, but the information is more important. It does little to convince Lestrade, who just tells his officers to start their search anew, this time for the phone. 

So much for that. 

He turns back to the screen, trying to figure it out. It doesn’t help that he keeps getting distracted by thoughts of Jennifer Wilson’s personal life. Because Sherlock’s right: she’d been very clever and very careful with her phone. All those lovers, her business, her personal information. She’d stored it all on that little device, behind one little password. Never use the name of a loved one as a password. Jim had said it over and over, constantly both amused and amazed that people were stupid enough to do such a thing. Names were always the first thing a person would try, especially if they were close to you.

A clever, careful woman, who hadn’t ever worried that someone like her husband would figure it out. It spoke volumes about their relationship, an even louder statement than her ring.

None of which helps right now. He needs to be figuring this out, not dissecting a dead woman’s marriage.

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock says. It sounds like he’s addressing the room in general. “Just...popping out for some fresh air.”

Oh, sure. Leave John alone with all the officers. That’s a great idea. In fairness, he probably needs a break from them even more than John does.

“Don’t be long,” John calls after him.

“I won’t.”

A few minutes pass with John staring doggedly at the screen, doing his best to ignore everyone around him. Then a few minutes more. Finally, an officer starts sorting through a box of papers that’s on the same desk as the laptop and John’s had enough. 

“Oh for---do you _really_ think that’s useful?” He stands, jarring the table and making the officer backpeddle hastily. “Honestly. The bloody phone isn’t bloody _here_. Watch.” 

Taking out his own mobile, he pulls up the number and makes the call, putting it on speaker for all to hear and it rings out, just like he said. Lestrade sighs and draws a hand across his face.

“If it’s ringing out like that, then it’s not here.”

“Told you,” John mutters, crossing the room to look out the window. If Sherlock doesn’t come back in two more minutes, John’s going down and getting him, or at least joining him.

Only there’s someone else already down there. As John watches, Sherlock pulls away from the front window of a cab, gets into the backseat and is off and away.

“Are you kidding me,” he asks the universe. He’s being ditched for the second time in the space of a few hours. At least he’s already at Baker Street this time, even if he has to be surrounded by people he doesn’t much like.

Lestrade sounds tired. “What now? Is he coming back or what?”

Donovan answers before John can, her eyes fixed on him. “He isn’t, is he.”

John hesitates, but he has to admit that it doesn’t seem likely.

“Yeah. Figures. He bloody left again.” She turns sharply on her heel and heads into the kitchen, announcing “We’re wasting our time!”

John hates to agree with her on anything, but it’s true. They _are_ wasting their time and while the day may have been successful for John in personal ways, they’re no closer to solving the case than they were before they looked at Jennifer Wilson’s body.

“I’ll check the search again,” he says, moving back to the laptop. He might as well, it’s not like there’s anything else useful for him to do at the moment. Maybe it was some kind of glitch. Unlikely, but it can’t hurt to look again. Refreshing the page, he watches the little timer circle around. 

Behind him, Donovan is declaring Sherlock a lunatic. “He’ll always let you down,” she warns.

John tries to ignore her and the small, twisting sensation that her words cause. She’s not right, but she’s not entirely wrong, either. He’s been equally lifted up and left behind today, an odd balance. Sherlock gave every sign of wanting company only to turn around and run off on his own as if---

As if there’d never been anyone to wait _for_. John thinks back to the moment in the hallway, how clearly he’d seen Sherlock’s loneliness and the surprise that had brought about.

Did Sherlock even realize he was lonely? Could he, if that’s how it had always been for him? 

John may have lost everything but there’d been a long, long time where he’d gotten to have everything. He might be misreading things, but given the way people kept going on about Sherlock’s lack of friends like they were warning John about a plague carrier, he’s pretty sure he’s right. 

Jennifer Wilson, Sherlock, even John himself now. All that loneliness, all that sadness. It’s crushing to think about. 

On the screen, the little timer is still circling around. 

“Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?” 

A glance behind him shows Lestrade to be the only officer left in the room. He’s pulling on his coat, looking at John like he might actually have answers. John shifts around to face him more fully and shrugs, not wanting to share his musings.

“You know him better than I do.”

“I’ve known him for five years and no. I don’t.”

Well shite. “Five years?”

“Yeah.” Lestrade eyes him, speculative. “And I’ve got a feeling it took you all of five minutes to know more than I do.”

John just shrugs again, uncomfortable. “The tracker should be reloaded soon.”

Lestrade eyes him for another moment then smooths out the front of his jacket. “Yeah, well. Let us know if it changes.”

“Will do,” John agrees, and starts to turn away again when the Inspector’s next words catch him off guard.

“I’m sorry.”

John blinks at him, then around at the mess. “Oh, well. None of this is mine. I’m not really the person to apologize to.”

Lestrade shakes his head, everywhere but at John. “No, I mean---I’m sorry for you. And Sherlock. And whatever happened that made you like this.”

John freezes. “Pardon?” he forces out.

“I just mean.” Lestrade waves a hand around, still not meeting his eyes. “Just stick with him, yeah? Through--all this. And maybe the two of you might, I don’t know. Help each other.”

Feeling like he’s made of stone, John can’t get himself to reply at all. He’s not even sure how he would. At his lack of response Lestrade nods and sees himself out. 

Slowly, John takes a deep breath, lets it out, and turns himself back to the screen. What in the hell is he even supposed to make of that? Where did it even come from? How does he even begin to figure out how he feels about it? 

He’s still sitting there trying to work it out when the damn tracker finally dings. 

It’s moving. Shite.

But why now? What’s changed? Had someone brought it with them then taken it away again? Sherlock had nixed the idea of the killer being a police officer, but the only other person who’d shown up and left again was Sherlock himself, when he’d taken off---

In the taxi. The one he’d never called for, with a driver that had shown an unusual persistence and worried Mrs. Hudson. A damn taxi, not unlike the one they’d chased down from Angelo’s. They’d checked the passenger and not even glanced at the driver.

The realization makes John feel so stupid that he’s sure he’s right. God, it was so obvious. He’d been so busy running this way and that, being mired in his own thoughts and being kidnapped that he never had a chance to settle down and really _think_ about it.

And Sherlock, Sherlock had realized it and immediately run off with the murderer without thinking to tell anyone, not even John. 

Cursing, John shoves his coat on and snatches up the laptop, trying to dial the police with his free hand. It’s a damn good thing he doesn’t need his cane anymore, he’d never balance all this with it, and certainly wouldn’t be getting down the stairs like he is.

Outside, he accidentally hangs up the call while trying to hail a cab. On the upside, a cab actually stops. 

“Where to?” the drivers asks, as John shoves himself inside. 

He slams the door. “I’ll ah, tell you as we go.”

The driver turns in his seat, expression dubious. “Hey now--” 

John holds up a hand to forestall any argument. “Look. I’ll pay you two-hundred quid if you just go with it and do what I say, yeah?” 

Unfortunately this backfires, the driver’s expression zooming from ‘doubtful’ to ‘alarmed’. John probably shouldn’t have offered so much money so fast. It’s not his fault, he’s never had to bribe anyone before.

“I’m not a criminal! I just need to get somewhere. Very fast. And don’t know exactly where I’m going, so I just need to, um, let you know as we go. Ok?”

The driver relents. “Fine. But you pay it upfront.”

“Whatever, just go.” Reading out instructions from the map, he drops his phone just long enough to dig out his bank card and swipe it through, then takes another shot at making his call.

Getting a police officer to believe that your friend has been abducted by a murderous cabbie and is in imminent danger of being killed is a much harder task than John would have ever believed.

“No,” he tells the woman on the phone, “he didn’t just _leave_ , he was _taken_. It’s the serial killer behind all the suicides, he’s a cab driver. No, the _killer_ is a cab driver, not my friend, my friend is the one that’s going to be the next victim. _Yes_ , it _is_ a serial--look will you _please_ just put me through to Detective Inspector Lestrade---we don’t have time for a message! Give me his mobile number, then!”

Fucking hell. The only way it could be worse is if it was his own life on the line. He can just imagine it: _But are you sure you’re being murdered, sir? Couldn’t you have been stabbed repeatedly by falling on some garden shears by accident? Is this really an emergency?_

No wonder Jim had breezed past the law so many times, doing whatever he wanted. The law was fucking useless.

Unfortunately, pointing this out to the law makes them hang up on you. John stares at his phone in disbelief, once more forced to ask the universe if this is all some kind of bad joke.

By the time he’s reached his destination, the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, he decides on a new tactic. Shoving his way back out of the cab, he slams the door shut and looks around for a moment before shoving the laptop shut under a nearby bush. Checking the cab numbers confirms it, it’s the same one alright. 

He dials the police one last time and goes straight to talking, cutting off the responder. He gives the location, the cab number, and that if they have the time and feel like getting around to it, could they please tell Detective Inspector Lestrade that Sherlock Holmes is being murdered? Lovely, thanks.

Ending the call, he puts the phone away. That’s the most he can do with that, now he’s going to have to just search on foot. There’s not enough light for him to see if there are any footprints so all he can do is choose one of the buildings and hope it’s the right one. 

Confronted with endless hallways and doors he quickly realizes that even if he’s in the right building, he’s got only a slim chance of finding the right room.

Frantic, he runs from door to door, shouting Sherlock’s name. It’s a desperate move, but that’s what he is: Desperate. Sherlock can’t die, John’s just found him. Lestrade was right on one thing: They can help each other. They _need_ each other. Short time or not, Sherlock is his friend now, is literally the only person John has and he can’t lose that, especially not like this. John can’t be left alone and adrift, not again. 

Empty doors in an empty building and if he fails, he’ll be an empty person all over again.


	25. And I'm like BOOM headshot, BOOM headshot, BOOM headshoooooooooot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so. Wow. 
> 
> First of all sorry about the long wait, my entire laptop died mere days after the keyboard did. I still don't have a new one so obviously that's delayed things quite a bit and even set off a case of writers block, which, ugh. It doesn't help that typing and posting on the tiny hand device I have left is fucking ridiculous.
> 
> Secondly this is not really what it sounds like a lot of you were expecting. Please mind the Canon Divergence tag! While it does follow what I had planned, I was expecting this piece to be longer than it is (and certainly of better quality) but I decided it was best to just go ahead and post at least the wrap up of things here since so much time was passing.
> 
> But really, keep the Canon Divergence in mind. I don't want to give away too much because spoilers, but there will be both large and small differences. ( For example, not to crush anyone's dreams, but Jim fake dating Molly is absolutely not going to happen.) Hopefully as things progress, it will stay interesting to you guys and the AU ripple effect of differences won't scare people off. 
> 
> Thank you guys for all the comments, they mean a great deal and helped so much and are greatly, greatly appreciated! I'm going to be doing my best to make my way through reply to them one by one. Thank you all for hanging in there too, it's rough when there are long pauses like this. 
> 
> And finally thanks to heshineslikeglass and Kadorienne for the much needed beta reading and Kadorienne in particular for all the encouragement! You guys have no idea how much worse this would be without it.

On the second floor his fears skyrocket through the roof--he’s found absolutely no sign of Sherlock and there are only so many doors left. He can’t be in the wrong building, it's taken him this long just to get through this one, if he has to go to the other one and start all over again---

 

He’s in the wrong fucking building. 

 

Of course he is, this is his life post-Jim. Nothing can go right.

 

He’s found Sherlock, sure. But it's through the window looking directly into the other building. Sherlock's not alone, either, he's facing away and listening to what must be the cabbie. From where he's standing, John can't see any reason why Sherlock can't just leave, but there must be one. As he watches, Sherlock lifts a small, tablet sized thing into the air, examining it against the light. 

 

All the breath leaves John. He's going to take a poisoned pill, he's going to--

 

The goddamn window won't open, it's one of those fancy kinds that's sealed shut. Why in the fuck do people make windows that don't open? What the fuck is the point of them?

 

In tandem with Sherlock, the cabbie is also bringing something to his lips. A second pill? That doesn't make sense.

 

It doesn't matter if it makes sense, John realizes suddenly, because he has a gun and a direct  line of sight and just because the window is sealed doesn't mean it's bullet proof.

 

Two seconds later the cabbie is falling backwards and the pill is falling from his fingers, a new neat hole ventilating his head.

 

John breathes out, his hands steady. Sherlock is safe, alive, and John won't have to live through another loss, it's going to be ok.

 

Sherlock is staring at him at him wide eyed, practically pressed against the glass of his window. John glares back and his ire intensifying as his friend’s eyes get even bigger and he mouths a word. John's not great shakes at lip reading, but it’s clearly his name. It's downright offensive, how surprised Sherlock is. What fucking right does Sherlock have to be so shocked? John's not the one who ran off with a murderer and almost got himself killed.

 

“What in the bloody fucking  _ fuck  _ did you think you were doing, you stupid bloody tosser! You--you  _ wanker _ !”

 

Sherlock understands perfectly, his expression morphing from shocked to cranky. He points at himself, and then at John, clearly meaning  _ me? No, you! _

 

Offended all over again, John points at himself, giving an exaggerated  _ me? Me, fucking really? _

 

Sherlock nods emphatically before going into a pantomime. 

 

_ Oh, la di da, I'll just shoot someone in the head and then stand around waiting for the police to arrest me, because I'm an idiot. _

 

Right. The police. That John called. And will probably be arriving any second. Shite.

 

Sherlock makes a shooing motion and John nods, darting away from the window and out of the room. Should he wash his hands? No, that's pointless, the blowback will be all over his jacket at the very least, trying to clean it off will just waste valuable time that he needs to get clear. All he can do is hope his clothing will conceal the gun adequately. But the police will know how long he's been here and---fuck, fuck, fuck. He has no plan; the only hope he has is that Sherlock will cover for him, and even in that he can't guess what sort of story the police will get. 

 

The first car pulls up just as John gets level with the taxi outside. He puts his hands over his head and waves them around, jumping a little, hoping he comes off as a little too panicked to be at all suspicious.

 

“Hey! Hey, officers!”

 

Unfortunately, the bobbies that get out of the car immediately set themselves on John, clearly mistaking him for the cabbie. It's so boggling that John doesn't even resist, just tries to play his part of the panicked flatmate who doesn't know what’s going on.

 

Fortunately, Sherlock chooses that moment to arrive, striding around as if he hadn't just been about to take a suicide pill or seen someone shot in the head. He snaps at the officers to stop being so stupid, John's obviously not the murderer, don't they have any common sense? The officers back off and as more cars arrive, Sherlock has only a few seconds to hiss at John.

 

“Get back. You saw nothing, you heard nothing, you're as simple as Anderson, you understand?”

 

He stalks off again, presumably in search of Lestrade, and John does as he's told. He means to go as far as the perimeter that's already being set up, but Donovan catches up to him first, warning him to not go far, that they’ll have questions for him in a bit. Right. 

 

It's terribly awkward, standing around out of the way with nothing to do. He can do this, he reassures himself. Nevermind that it's so different from the last two times he was questioned in regards to murder, nevermind how carefully orchestrated those situations had been. 

 

Nevermind that he'd had Jim to stand with back then.

 

They'd known how to play off of each other, and Jim had done so much to ensure they'd get nothing but a cursory glance on top of that. This...this is rushed, sloppy.  An improv performed by people who’ve just met instead of a practiced, synchronized duo. John trusts Sherlock to do his part but there are still too many things they can't predict, too many holes for John to fall through.

 

The uncertainty, his nerves, even the aftershocks of fear from watching Sherlock almost kill himself--it works better than anything he could have manufactured. Donovan seems almost reassured by the way he’s obviously unnerved and trying to hold himself together, by the stumbles in his sentences as he outlines the time between his arrival and theirs, the way he slowly gets steadier as he realizes he's in the clear.

 

To her, he's doing everything he should be. Any normal person would be shaken by the knowledge that someone they know almost died, would feel unmoored by being rendered helpless to do anything to stop it despite their best efforts. He watches the thoughts tick through in her head--that sure, John’s a bit odd, but here he is reacting just as he should be.

 

Poor sad, naive doctor, still doesn't know what he's gotten into with someone like Sherlock Holmes.

 

It's likely that line of thinking that spurs her into bringing up to speed on what Sherlock has shared with her and Lestrade so far, specifically what the deal was with the bloody pills. 

 

“So...he was getting paid to off people with this 'game’.”

 

Donovan looks like she can't quite believe it either. “Was ready to die, apparently.”

 

John can't fully believe it either. “Someone ready to die and getting paid to off people as he goes gets pointed specifically at Sherlock, and no one stops to think--”

 

“That both the pills were poisoned,” she finishes for him. “One huge payoff instead of a bunch of small gambles.”

 

John closes his eyes and puts his hands over his face because dear god, Sherlock is an  _ idiot _ . 

 

“I know, right?” Donovan’s laugh is short and sharp. It feels familiar, the same kind he’s heard from soldiers with comrades that have narrowly escaped being bumped off.  “We still have to find both of them before we can even test them, of course, but I don't doubt what the results will be. He'd have died, all so that he could feel clever.”

 

John shakes his head and drags his hands down. He answers a few follow up questions, mostly just about how he can be contacted and her face pinches when he names Baker Street as his new address, but she doesn’t push this time. Instead she just repeats her earlier instructions about staying behind the tape and out of the way before leaving him be.

 

Sherlock isn't difficult to spot; he's sitting on the edge of an ambulance with a ridiculous orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders, exchanging words with Lestrade. John makes eye contact and Sherlock stands, waving away questions that John isn't close enough to hear. Ditching the blanket, he stops right in front of John, expression neutral.

 

“What did you touch?”

 

“Just doors.”

 

Sherlock considers this. “That shouldn't be a problem, I don't think. Easy enough to handle if it comes up.” The corner of his mouth tilts up a small smirk. “Wear gloves next time.”

 

“Next time? Me stopping you from killing yourself like an idiot is going to be a trend, then?”

 

Sherlock’s smirk grows into a grin but John puts a hand up, halting whatever he was going to say next.

 

“Obviously we’ve got a lot to talk about, but this, ah.” John looks around pointedly. “Not really the place, yeah?”

 

“I suppose not,” Sherlock agrees. “Not a terrible lot to discuss though, beyond the simple facts.”

 

Hearing him speak so casually about his near miss with death, one that could have been so easily avoided, brings John's frustration right back to the surface and he lets it show on his face for a moment, before shoving it back down. Sherlock raises an eyebrow but when John pushes again for them to leave, he doesn't comment, instead settling to follow along in silence.

 

They’re barely clear when their path is blocked by a car so unremarkable yet foreboding that John isn't even surprised at who steps out.

 

“ _ Mr. Poppins _ ,” he hisses to Sherlock who nods. Distaste darkening his features as he stalks straight toward the man and John marches over right along with him. He may not be showing any fear but after the night’s events John thinks it's perfectly reasonable to say that Sherlock doesn't have a very good grasp of being sensible and he is  _ not _ about to let some new threat snatch up his new friend without a fight.

 

John doesn't at all like how dangerously close Sherlock gets to Mr. Poppins, the man's oily taunts grating against John's already inflamed nerves. It’s an incredibly brazen move for this man to be confronting Sherlock with the police only yards away, like he hadn't a care about being noticed. He likely  _ doesn't _ have to care, actually. The demonstration of his power earlier seemed no more taxing for him than twirling his umbrella, government bodies clearly pose little threat to him.

 

Because, it turns out, he  _ is _ a government body.

 

And Sherlock’s brother.

 

“Sorry, what?” John breaks in, his tightly wound tension faltering in surprise. “Your brother?”

 

“Mycroft, yes,” Sherlock confirms, still trying to stare his sibling down.

 

“Jesus.” John looks back and forth between them, not finding much resemblance beyond their height. “You could have just said.” 

 

Sherlocks expression sours even further. “I try not to remember that we’re related.”

 

John tenses right back up again at that. Family did not equal safety, he knew that as well as anyone, and if Sherlock was that reluctant to be associated with his brother there was likely a damn good reason. He’d already described Mycroft as the most dangerous man one would ever meet, a statement that, when combined with his avoidance, became far more alarming and John was certainly not going to dismiss it out of hand.

 

“Oh do calm yourself, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft patronizes. “It's merely Sherlock’s stubbornness and an old, childish feud, nothing more.”

 

As if John is going to take his word on that. He gives a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Sure.”

 

Mycroft heaves a deep sigh that’s condescending enough to propel Sherlock into leaving, turning sharply to make his way around the car. Not wanting to prolong the contact any more than Sherlock, John moves to follow after him again, only to be drawn up short when he realizes that the woman he'd ridden with earlier is standing off to the side and his curiosity about her jumps up, clamoring for him ask despite his common sense. He pauses in front of her and coughs politely. When she remains a busily texting statue, he found again, more loudly this time.

 

“Er. Excuse me?”

 

Finally she looks up and it's like she's seeing him for the first time. Which may in fact be the case, he realizes, given that he never actually saw her looking at him even once during the whole tedious ordeal. She forms a vague smile, her demeanor almost deliberately vacant.

 

“Oh. Hello.”

 

John coughs again, this time from nerves, his words floundering.

 

“I was just wondering, ah. Are you by any chance. You know.” He shifts his weight, fidgeting. “Are you some kind of spy, assassin person? Um. Like, double oh seven, that. Sort of thing.”

 

She stares at him, unblinking.

 

“I'm double oh five, actually.”

 

“ _ Really _ ?” John squeaks, leaning forward.

 

“I could kill you with this Blackberry,” she says, her voice just as bland as the smile that's still fixed in place. Without another word she goes back to typing, as if being finished with the conversation means John no longer exists.

 

He honestly can't tell if she's serious or not but figures it's better not to ask and when Sherlock shouts for him impatiently, he hurries on.

 

It's not surprising that after not having eaten all day Sherlock's first suggestion is for them to find some dinner, and it sounds as good an idea as any. John wouldn't have expected many cabs to be around this late in such an empty area, but Sherlock once again demonstrates an uncanny, almost magnet like ability in locating one in what feels like mere seconds. Thankful, John leans his head back against the seat, his eyes slipping closed. The ride passes is silence as John tries to organize his thoughts--if he doesn't start the conversation off just right there's every chance that he’ll only be ignored. Of course, he realizes as they pull up in front of a small Chinese take out place, what he needs to do is let Sherlock go first. Let him run through all the details and get most of his talking out of his system.  _ Then _ John can jump in and point all the planet sized holes in Sherlock's judgement.

 

It works. As expected, Sherlock goes off as soon as their food order is put in, openly thrilled to have an audience for his brilliance. John prods here and there as he listens, absorbing all the little bit of minutia and mentally adding them to the case he plans to make. Finally, Sherlock winds down, tapering off not in contemplation of Jefferson Hope himself, but of the man’s unnamed sponsor.

 

The sponsor. It's as good a place to start as any.

  
  


**THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

 

**_Who in the hell is Prince Humperdinck?_ **

 

Most people forget, but there's a difference between being smart and being clever. Sometimes I think  _ everyone _ forgets and assumes that the two are one in the same, thinking that just because someone can be one of those things in a situation, then it must equate to them being the other as well. Some people are both, yes. It's rare, but absolutely true. I myself am neither---but even I know just how foolish it is to confuse or conflate the two. 

 

Today provided a perfect example: The case of Jefferson Hope. Literal case, given that Hope is the suicide killer that's been terrorizing London for months now, his reach and random strikes enabled by his job as a cab driver. (I'm assuming that terrorizing is the best way to describe it. I've been so out of touch that today was the first I've heard of it, but apparently it's been all over the news for months now.) Hope, believing himself  _ both  _ smart and clever, a combination I've started to think of as “brilliant”, operated by deducing (not very well in my opinion) each passenger that entered the potential death zone of his cab and going from there. He fancied himself, and I quote, “a proper genius”. 

 

In reality he was little more than an average man who'd been handed top of the line gear that he used to shoot fish in a barrel while declaring himself a master fisherman, and there is not a single brilliant thing about that.

 

Look at his victims:

  * A jet lagged business man approaching middle age
  * An 18 year old boy
  * A middle aged woman too drunk to do anything
  * And finally, Jennifer Wilson, an unhappy woman in the media profession who proved to be a bit more than just another fish.



 

None of these people could be expected to know that the gun they were being threatened with was fake. None of them could be expected to know how to handle a sudden kidnapping and life or death scenario. None of them, not even Wilson, who held her ground the best against Hope, could have been expected to do anything but react like the average panicked civilian.

 

Hope gave himself every advantage and then congratulated himself on being superior to his victims. It's pathetic, and so was the game he played.

 

It revolved around two pills, one deadly, one not, and both so identical that only Hope could tell them apart. One would be placed in front of the victim and the other in front of himself. The victim, at gun point, was made to choose between them. Anyone that's seen the Princess Bride can see where this is going: Did I put the poison in front of you or in front of myself? 

 

To make it even more absurd, Hope didn't even come up the idea for this whole mess himself. Some unidentified person, his Prince Humperdinck if you will, essentially contracted him to do all this. They supplied the game, the pills, and honestly I have to wonder if they also had a hand in dictating the times. All Hope had to do was choose his own victims and keep winning. Each success would be rewarded with money being put towards his children’s futures, a sufficient motivation for an isolated divorcee with little to leave behind when his aneurysm inevitably killed him.

 

On the surface it appears that Humperdinck must simply be both incredibly rich and incredibly bored. I think there's more to it than that, though, because in his final game, Hope seems to have been specifically directed to his target: Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective and also my new flatmate. 

 

I've only known him for a day more or less, but what I can say is that I met him just in time thanks to an old friend, that he's far from boring, and that Sherlock is, in fact, both smart and clever. The real deal, albeit in need of some direction. He may miss some basic things, such as assuming it was a woman that I married, but he gets there in the end and is probably the third most brilliant person I've ever met. He's damn good at what he does. However, he's picky as well--a crime has to have a feature of interest for him before he’ll even think about getting involved, and the suicide killings definitely--and deliberately--did.

 

Leading up to his final game, Hope made a number of frankly embarrassing blunders.

 

  * After kidnapping and poisoning Wilson, he forgot to leave her incredibly identifiable suitcase with her body and did a shoddy job of dumping it
  * Didn't notice that Wilson had slipped a way to track him onto him
  * Didn't stick around after poisoning Wilson, allowing for her to painstakingly leave information about how to track him, even though she was in excruciating pain and minutes from death



And--well, let's face it, just every single move he made with her, starting with his decision to target her. Despite his claim of “being able to see people like a map in his head”, I think it most likely that he judged her instantly on sight based on her appearance and more of dress--medium, carefully toned hair and covered in more pink than I can even say--and didn't bother to look any deeper. If he had, he would have known better than to think he'd stay in the clear while dealing with her.

 

Furthermore, when we discovered the likelihood of the tracker she planted, we contacted it. His brilliant response was to panic so badly that  _ he tried to contact us back. _ Then, when instructed by what could only be Wilson herself or the police to meet at a specific location, he  _ actually showed up _ . True, we wound up having to chase his cab over bloody rooftops, but we did catch up to him.

 

Which is where  _ we _ fucked up. Or rather, Sherlock did. As I said, he misses big things sometimes, and we were so busy looking at the passenger that we never even glanced at Hope, the driver. It worked out for him, but only temporarily.

 

Because he showed up again. At our flat.

 

Hope did have one single thing going for him: he understood, or at least had been told, how to appeal to the side of Sherlock that would rather be clever than smart. Knowing this, all he had to do was turn up like a strange man driving a van, offering a puzzle instead of candy. (Apparently no one ever gave Sherlock any lessons about Stranger Danger.) After he had Sherlock, all he had to do was essentially challenge Sherlock to a candy eating contest, and just like that, Sherlock agreed to play this ridiculous, rigged game. 

 

And when I say rigged, I mean even more so than that card stacking crap that Hope was pulling before, and again, if we remember the Princess Bride, we know what this means: Both pills had to be deadly.

 

Remember the person that's pulling Hope’s strings? Remember the real brain behind it all, the mysterious, bored Humperdinck that set all of this in motion in the first place?

 

Wouldn't it be useful if Hope managed to get rid of Sherlock Holmes, brilliant consulting detective? Wouldn't it be convenient if he offed himself at the same time, tying up any loose ends all nice and neat? Wouldn't it be nice for Hope himself if instead of smaller individual payments, his children wound up with a single one that would be all they needed?

 

Of course, Sherlock didn't put it together like that. He was too busy showing off how clever he can be instead of being smart about it. 

 

And yes, true, the pills haven't been tested yet, so I could be completely wrong, but I feel certain of it. Sherlock nearly died, a fact that upsets me horribly. Short time or not, I know that he’s completely turned things around for me so much that I’ve been able to put my ruddy cane away. Losing that would be a great deal more than a bit not good.

 

The only reason he survived was because someone, perhaps yet another “employee” of Humperdinck, intervened and shot Hope straight in the head right before he could take that final, deadly step. I’d say Sherlock must have done something to upset Humperdinck, but he upsets people pretty much constantly, so it must go beyond that--perhaps that Sherlock poses some kind of threat. Something changed, obviously, but I doubt we’ll ever know what. 

 

At the end of it, the mysterious Humperdinck is the only winner in this whole mess. Well, and me. I get to keep Sherlock, who has hopefully learned something about managing his brilliance:

 

Smart is knowing better than to let someone else pull your strings.

 

Clever is getting a hole in your head that lets the whole word see the empty space where your brain should be.

  
(I myself wound up learning that apparently most geniuses are particularly susceptible to their own type of candy, and that personally, being kidnapped can, in fact, be rather boring. I don't quite know what to do about either of these things yet, but there you are.)


	26. Chapter 26

On his first morning in his new home, John woke up with a plan.

It was very simple: return to his “old” flat, divide up what he would give away, what would go into storage, and which things he would immediately take to Baker Street. 

He could do it, he told himself, as he drank cold tea that Mrs. Hudson had kindly left for them. It would be easy, he assured himself on the ride over. This was the final time he’d ever be here, he promised himself as he pushed through the door with boxes and bags.

His plan lasted all of five seconds.

There was simply too _much_ stuff to begin with---there was no possible way to pack up years worth of crap in one day, even if he worked straight through a full twenty four hours. 

Then there was the emotional aspect. Which, to be fair, he’d been expecting, but apparently his new life wasn't going to be strong enough armor to deflect the pain of being surrounded by his old one. It didn't matter how much he derided himself over it either; no matter how stupid it was or how hard he tried to combat it, nothing was going to stop him from getting soppy over things like absurdly over-priced ties or ridiculous red underpants.

With his first battle plan dead before it even really started, he doesn’t bother trying to form a new one. Instead he focuses on necessities. Nevermind books or music or movies, and nevermind the kitchen entirely. Just things like clothes, his laptop--if he doesn’t need it right now, he can’t afford to look at it.

That doesn't prevent him from breaking down over some of the photos scattered about. They’re too painful to see yet impossible to leave behind and he can't stop himself from taking a few of them.

Alright, more than just a few. 

Maybe just most of them. 

(All of them. He’s taking all of them, fuck it.)

He could swear he had more jumpers than this. Maybe---no. The ones missing were probably just collateral damage in some of Jim’s experiments, that’s all. There was no point in wondering beyond that, especially given how unconcerned Jim appears to have been about his own belongings.

He’s a mere three bags in before things hit pre-Baker Street levels and the despair smothers him. The airless sense of drowning is so complete, so abrupt that he panics, suddenly convinced that if he doesn’t leave, doesn’t get out _right this very second_ , he'll never get out; he'll be eaten by it, hopelessly trapped for a hellish eternity.

On the sidewalk, he shakes like he’s going to fly apart and knows he can’t go back in there. Not now and not alone, and frankly there’s no one that he could call for help. Sherlock would be too dangerous even if he were willing, and the only other possibility is Mike which just...no. Mike has already done more than John could ever ask for, and again, even if it weren’t rude as hell and if Mike were willing, it would only make things even more painful.

Besides, the flat’s paid up for a long time yet, there’s no immediate timetable. So what if the place and everything in it just sits and collects dust, sealed up like the mausoleum of their dead relationship? It’ll keep. 

What he’s collected will serve fine for the meantime--he needs to get somewhere safe, to go _home_ , to Baker Street more than he needs anything else right now.

Lugging his bags up the stairs, John finds the flat just as silent and still as when he’d left. Sherlock clearly hasn’t woken yet and John creeps up to his room more quietly now, thankful that there’s no one to witness the embarrassment of his massive failure. It’s poor form, he knows, to simply drop the bags unopened in his room, but sorting through things again to put them away in his helpfully already furnished room feels beyond him at the moment. What he needs is a distraction, and he’s lucky enough to be in a flat full of them. 

Remembering some of the comments from last night, he decides on the kitchen first and---yup. The jar of human eyeballs is still in the microwave. Smiling for the first since waking up, he leaves them there undisturbed. Opening the refrigerator immediately confirms his previous suspicions: Right there, on eye level, is a human hand resting on just a bit of attached wrist so that it’s standing upright, fingers extended like it’s waiting to give John a congratulatory high five. It’s so absurd that he can’t help but be amused---until he takes a closer look. Not blinking, he watches carefully as a bit of condensation runs down from the inside of the plastic...

...and drips ever so slightly into an open, partially eaten bag of salad.

John closes the refrigerator, waits a moment, then opens it again. Nope, not his imagination. That’s really happening. 

Grabbing the salad and chucking it in the bin, John honestly has to wonder how Sherlock has survived this long without poisoning himself if this is the care that he takes in handling hazardous material. Yes, there had been hazards in his old kitchen and yes, there had been accidents, but this is incredibly careless. 

How much of it was because Sherlock thought himself above such things and how much was because he didn't see the point in caring about himself? He thinks back to the way Sherlock had shrugged off being hit by not one but two cars and decides he’s done with the kitchen for now; he can wait for Sherlock to give him a walkthrough on what is where. Between what he's found so far and his past experiences with what Jim used to keep around, handling so much as a saltshaker might actually kill him if he’s not prepared.

By the time Sherlock wanders out into the sitting room wearing a robe over his pyjamas, John is investigating a stack of newspapers from the nineteen-eighties that had been hiding under a surprisingly dusty lamp in a corner. Going through them, he can’t figure out what about them Sherlock would find interesting enough to warrant holding onto them.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice him, already fully engrossed in his phone. Without looking, he pours himself what's left of Mrs. Hudson’s tea. John wrinkles his nose but Sherlock doesn’t appear to notice anything wrong as he drinks it.

“Morning,” John says finally, still holding one of the newspapers.

It seems to confuse Sherlock as he looks up, as if he’d already forgotten he’d acquired a roommate.

“Ah, John.” He drains his cup and sets it down. “Lestrade’s been texting; he insists that our follow up statements can’t be put off any longer. We might as well indulge him.”

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock shuffles back to his room, presumably to get properly ready.

John rather doubts that _both_ of them were being asked for so urgently, but he isn’t about to argue. He’s never actually been to the New Scotland Yard headquarters, so that’ll be interesting on its own. Sherlock is obviously a very familiar face there, which hopefully means that John eventually will be too, what with this assisting on cases and whatnot.

It’s still going to be a bit nerve wracking despite the way he and Sherlock had ironed out their stories last night. Some of the officers such as Anderson clearly are true idiots, but they can’t all be. All it takes is someone picking at one tiny inconsistency for a story to fall apart. With luck, Lestrade and his officers will be more interested in combing through for more information on Jefferson Hope than anything to do with John. All he has to do is be boring.

John’s good at that. He doesn’t even have to try.

Unlike Sherlock, who appears to have gone through some kind of complicated regimen to insure that he looks exactly right before engaging with Scotland Yard, all John has to do is put his shoes on. That doesn’t stop Sherlock from shouting complaints that John is taking too long as he suddenly flies out the door, coat swirling behind him. Rather than be offended John takes a moment to enjoy the fact that he can run down the stairs after him, rather than hobble down one step at a time. He knows he’ll start taking it for granted some time, something he’s looking forward to, but it’s far too early for that yet.

“Any new discoveries on their end?” John asks as they sit sharing the back of a cab. (And of course Sherlock had insisted on a cab. John’s beginning to realize that Sherlock Holmes, World’s Only Consulting Detective, does not take the tube if he can help it. Figures.)

Putting his phone down but not away, Sherlock makes a distracted noise of dissent and looks absently out the window.

“I assume so, even that lot can’t be so thick as to not have found anything by now. Lestrade doesn’t want to ‘contaminate’ my testimony by giving out any new information. He’ll tell us more when we get there.”

John accepts this with a nod and lets himself rest back against the seat. After a few moments of quietly watching the scenery pass, he idly comments on his hope that the police will have had time enough to test the pills. Having his theory confirmed would certainly help to make up for the disastrous first part of his day.

Sherlock snorts. 

“High profile case like this? Of course they have. Though I wouldn’t expect much if I were you; having watched some little known movie is hardly going to give you special insight into the criminal mind.”

“Little known--” John sputters for a moment. There’s too many things he could say at once. “First of all just because _you_ don’t know what something is doesn’t mean that no one else does, and secondly, _all_ of the information adds up in a way that’s far too similar to ignore.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock denies, all posh pronunciation and childish attitude.

“Yes, it---ok.” John stops himself, unwilling to descend to Sherlock’s level. “How about this. If I’m right, you have to watch the movie. The whole thing, and you have to actually pay attention.”

“And when you’re proven wrong?”

“Er.” John falters. “I don’t know. I’ll...stop calling the sponsor Humperdinck?”

“Oh, come now, we can do better than that. I’m sure I have some dissertations on comparisons of dirt samples lying around, for instance. I could even quiz you after, ensure that you were ‘paying attention’ to the ‘whole’ thing.”

Sherlock looks quite pleased with himself, so John let's him be for a moment before saying “You _do_ remember that I’m a doctor, don't you? And that I actually liked your essay on tobacco ash?”

Sherlock deflates, his expression mulish. “I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure you will,” John agrees. “But it won’t matter. Because I’m right.”

Sherlock harrumphs and takes up looking at his phone again, clearly trying to convey how aloof he is. John grins and lets him; it can’t be that much farther to the Yard.

Soon enough, he’s staring up at the building and he can’t help but remark on the way it strikes him as a little odd.

“Just….” He waves up at it with a hand, squinting against the light that bounces off it’s entirely reflective surface. “Who sits down and thinks all right: I’ve got to make a safe, secure building that’ll contain all these important officers of the law. I know! I’ll build the whole thing out of glass! That can’t possibly go wrong!”

Sherlock isn’t paying attention however, already pushing through the doors, and John winds up having to hurry to keep up with him. Given the size of the building, John makes careful note of the route and floor numbers as they pass through security and head directly to where Lestrade and his team spend their office hours.

They’re easy to spot, even the ones that John doesn't recognize, which admittedly is most of them. Each one has the harried, dragged out look of a sleep deprived, caffeine fueled student cramming for their finals.

Donovan shifts a little where she’s sitting at her desk, her head propped against her hand as if it’s the only thing keeping her up. Coffee cups and paperwork cover her desk, and as they pass by she doesn’t actively address them, but doesn’t keep her aggrieved complaint of “God, why,” very quiet either.

Sherlock pays no mind to it and doesn’t bother knocking before barging into Lestrade’s private office.

The strain of no sleep and feverish work have left Lestrade even worse off than his team. He remains seated, last night's clothing rumpled and tie abandoned entirely.

“Took you bloody long enough,” he grumps, running a hand over tired eyes. “I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s footie match in four hours, you know that?”

“Oh, you know how eager I am to assist however I can,” Sherlock says with an utterly unconvincing smile, apparently unconcerned at how working through the night has made everyone all the more cranky.

“You just want to know what we found,” Lestrade grouses, shuffling some papers around to find what he’s looking for. “Alright, let’s get this out of the way.”

Sherlock settles himself into the chair across from Lestrade and John looks around, feeling a tad foolish when he realizes there aren’t any other chairs. He’s spared from standing around awkwardly when Lestrade notices he’s still there.

“You can’t be here right now,” he says, waving John out. “It’s bad enough I let you two go home to talk things over, statements need to be done individually. In fact---you gave one to Sally, yeah?” He doesn’t give John time to respond, just points in the general direction of Donovan’s desk. “Go ahead and go over it again, see if there’s anything new you remember, all that.”

John goes out, closing the door behind him. More time with Donovan. Fun.

Approaching her desk, she looks every bit as unhappy about it as he is.

“Your statement?” 

At his confirmation, she sighs and gestures to a simple plastic and wire chair that sits at the end of her desk. 

“Alright, have a seat.” 

He does, and she starts digging through things, looking for the relevant documents. John coughs a little.

“There’s, ah, not really much need to,” he tells her. “I don’t really have anything that I didn't say already.”

She pauses briefly, considering, then continues, shaking her head.

“Even so, this needs to be done right.” She finds the right material, glancing over it before turning towards him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it _always_ needs to be done right, and we’re damn good at what we do, no matter what your new ‘friend’ over there says, but between the media attention, the higher ups breathing down our necks and the bloody mess that arse always leaves behind when he gets involved, this needs to be as airtight as a sodding space suit.”

He can’t really argue with that so he goes along as she asks most of the same questions she did last night along with a few new ones, and finally going back over the whole statement in full.

“I’m sorry I’m not any help,” he says, because it seems like the thing to do. “Not much good, being this useless.”

“You let us know the location of a killer and and told us where a murder was happening,” she tells him, signing the document. “That’s plenty useful. More than _he_ did at any rate.”

Again, John can’t exactly contradict her, so he just shrugs. “I’m sure he would have.” It’s weak, but he has to say _some_ thing. “And besides. Good to know the process. Hopefully I’ll be more help next time.”

She freezes for a moment. Then, slowly, she turns in her chair to face him fully, incredulous.

“ _Next_ time? You’re planning on this happening again?”

John shrugs again. “Not this exact thing, obviously, but, ah, yeah.”

She closes her eyes for a moment as if to collect herself and holds out a hand, asking for his silence while she does so. John prepares himself and when she speaks, it’s to hiss out a disbelieving “Are you _mad_?” Which, yeah, that’s pretty much along the lines of what he was expecting. He smiles blandly at her.

“Maybe so. He isn’t though, I can tell you that much.”

“He’s not---? Alright. Look. Listen.” She rolls her chair closer to him and John tries not to be obvious about how much this bothers him, about how much this yet again reminds him of being in Secondary school surrounded by false friends who were more concerned with their status in the pecking order than anything real; of facing what felt like an endless barrage from small minded people interested only in distancing themselves from and tearing down anyone they could target as ‘different’.

Donovan, god help them all, actually seems _concerned_ about him and what she sees as his blindness in a dangerous situation.

“You, Dr. Watson,” she says, including his medical title as a clear appeal to the intelligence such a degree presumably signifies, “ _you_ have known him for what, two days at the most? The rest of us have known him for _years_ , half a decade I’d say. I don’t know what he’s said to you but he is very, very capable of presenting himself however he wants to be seen. He knows how to tell people exactly what they need to hear, and he is _very_ good at fooling people and getting what he wants out of them. Sharing a flat is one thing---personally I think that’s bad enough---but you’re going to, what. Go along with it while he runs around like a lunatic? Chase after him like some childminder, trying to make sure he’s safe?”

She puts both her hands up to keep him from interrupting and he doesn’t. None of this is anything he hasn’t heard before; he knows there no sense arguing. If he just let's her go ahead and have her say, let's her feel like she’s done her civic duty by ‘warning’ him, she’ll get over it faster and won’t try again.

“I have to say, that’s very good of you, to want to keep someone safe like that, and I’m sure you have the best of intentions. But it won’t work and even _if_ he doesn’t harm you directly, you _are_ going to get hurt---or even killed. You said he’d have told us about Hope eventually, but without that man being shot, his nibs wouldn’t be telling us a damn thing---we’d be examining _both_ of their bodies right now.”

John is---well, even if he weren't trying to sit tight and let her get this out of her system, he's not sure what kind of defence he'd use here. He knows how to deal with and even combat baseless cruelty, but this earnestness is much less familiar. It must show on his face, because she raises an eyebrow, obviously waiting for his rejoinder. Instead he bypasses all of it and hits on the only important part of what she’s said.

“You analyzed them? Both of them were---?”

“Yup,” she nods, reaching for yet another piece of paper and waving it between them. “There was no ‘good pill’. Hope was a pawn and he almost succeeded in taking the freak out.”

John can’t help the knee jerk reaction, his sudden exhale and teeth snapping together in a familiar near-snarl.

“ _Must_ you _really_ \---”

“What, be so childish? Be so constant about it? Yes.” She looks utterly unphased by the way he’s leaning towards her, her expression entirely serious. “Everyone else, they’ve gotten too used to him, like frogs in boiling water. What he says and does is normal now, ‘Oh, that’s just Holmes, you know how he is’. But ‘how he is’ is _dangerous_. Think about yesterday: the killer was right downstairs. We could have gone straight down and arrested him, but no. He wanted to satisfy his own curiosity, his own cleverness, his own _selfishness_. Imagine if he’d taken the pill and Hope hadn't--we’d still have a murderer running loose, hardly any closer to being caught. He does this shite _all. The. Time._ It’s not about saving or protecting people, it’s about us giving him hits so he can chase his thrill like any psychopath does. And fine, you don’t see it yet, you don’t believe me, but think about this.”

She dangles the paper between her thumb and forefinger, giving it a gentle shake for emphasis. “At the very least, if he’s this cavalier with his own life...how is he going treat yours?”

Clearly wound down now, she puts the paper down and turns her chair back to face her desk, rubbing her hands over her eyes. “Besides. You heard that shite he said to me last night. Hell, everyone did. If he’s going to come 'round and treat me like that every damn time, there’s no reason I can’t sling something right back at him.”

John thinks back, wrong footed for a moment. “About...the eyeballs?”

Donovan makes a face. “What? No. In Brixton. When he brought you to see Jennifer Wilson.”

“Ah.” She starts making a ‘yeah, exactly’ expression when he blurts “I wasn’t actually listening. You know. First time at a crime scene. Dead body. Bit distracting, I kind of, ah. Tuned out everything else.”

She stares at him for a long moment, mouth slightly agape.

“You really don’t know anything about Hope being shot, do you,” she says finally, her tone wondering.

She thinks he’s not just naive, but stupid too now, he realizes. He gives her a tight smile. Who cares. He can’t really bring himself to care what any of the officers here think of him, and if it helps avert suspicion, they can think whatever they like.

“We done?”

She waves him away and he gets up, eager to get away. She calls after him though. “Just--think about what I said, yeah?”

He waves a hand in part acknowledgment, part dismissal without turning around; he thinks it’s pretty clear to her that he’s not going to do that, at least not in the way she’s hoping. Plenty of it could have just as easily applied to Jim rather than Sherlock, and the familiarity of it is comfortable, rather than alarming. 

A friend, even a good one, instead of a husband isn’t a trade that John would have voluntarily made. Since he never got a choice about it, a friend who shares their world with him, who involves him in things---and dangerous things at that---instead of excluding him, will have to do. He was getting both more and less at the same time and the sooner he reconciled himself to that, the sooner he’d be content. There was no fooling himself into expecting real happiness in his future, not like he’d had, but most ordinary people never got that either. As an ordinary person himself, content was the most he could hope for.

Anything was better than the misery he’d been in mere days ago, at any rate.

The crap about Sherlock being a danger to him, or being a psychopath, that he would just have to push aside, at least for now. Sherlock was a grown man who, deadly cabbies aside, could handle himself just fine. People could say whatever they liked and as long as nothing real ever came of it, he had no need for John to go around being defensive on his behalf.

He raises a hand to knock on Lestrade’s office door, then pauses. Why should Sherlock be the only one that gets to be dramatic when proven right? Instead of knocking, he shoves the door open, ignoring Lestrade's startled _“Oi!”_ and swoops in to point straight at Sherlock with as much flair as he can muster.

“Princess Bride!”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“ _No_.” Sherlock looks like he’s swallowed ten lemons at once. “That’s---no. That is _ridiculous_.”

“I’m right, and you’re watching it.”

“Criminal masterminds don’t get their ideas from silly, insipid movies,” Sherlock insists, gritting his teeth.

John beams at him, relentless.

“It’s not a silly, insipid movie, it’s a classic,” Lestrade defends automatically. He looks back and forth between them. “But what’s it got to do with…?”

John mimes switching cups around. “Iocane powder,” he prompts, “Where is the poison!”

It takes a moment but then the lightbulb visibly dings on for Lestrade. Eyes widening, his arm flies up and now he’s the one pointing at Sherlock.

“Princess Bride!”

Sherlock stares at him. “Not you too.”

Lestrade laughs, some of the weariness leaving him. “The Princess Bride,” he repeats. “That’s a hell of a connection to make. No chance of surviving what was in those pills though.”

John nods. “Of course not. Hope takes out Sherlock, takes himself out, and Humper--er, the sponsor gets left with nothing that leads back to him.”

“No kidding.” Lestrade huffs, making a frustrated gesture at the mounds of reports in front of him. “We’ve been going over every inch of that rotter’s life and we can’t find a damn thing. At this rate the best we’ve got is waiting for those kids to grow up and seeing who dumps money on them. If that even happens, which I doubt.”

“Hope was completely certain.”

“Yeah well. One small, murder happy lunatic getting fooled by a bigger murder happy lunatic isn't exactly rare. This benefactor, whoever he is, he was careful. We wouldn't even know about him if Hope hadn’t run his mouth to you.”

Sherlock leans back in his chair, his expression turning distractedly thoughtful. “No,” he agrees. “ _We_ wouldn’t have…”

John waits, but when Sherlock fails to follow up with anything further he looks at Lestrade, who shrugs.

“Sorry I burst in here like that,” John offers. “Were you almost done?”

“Eh.” Lestrade waves away his apology. “Just dragging it out at this point. You can both clear off, I'll text if anything comes up.”

For a moment Sherlock doesn't move, seemingly too preoccupied with his internal musing, but at another prompting from Lestrade he's up and sweeping out without another word. Awkwardly, John offers a short goodbye to the Inspector and hurries out after him.

The ride back is silent, as the rest of the day might be; John hasn't seen Sherlock like this before but there's a ring of familiarity to it. Times when Jim, earphones glued to his head, would be working through things in his own mind, following trains of thought like strands in a web. Math was his home, and music was just another form of math, he’d said, one that let helped bring out the _sound_ each strand made, reverberating as he plucked at them. 

And where Jim would sometimes add movement, almost dancing along to follow it all, Sherlock seems to need absolute stillness and silence. The best thing John can do is give him that while he does the no doubt delicate work of trying to piece together the seemingly random facts of this particular puzzle.

Back at Baker Street--at _home_ , this is home now--John tries to do the same. He even tries writing some of it down, to see if it will help him look at things from a fresh angle but he just winds up with more question marks than anything else. It's not that he truly thinks he’ll get anywhere, he's not Jim or Sherlock, and he clearly wasn't of any use besides pulling the trigger yesterday; no matter what Jim always said he’s just as dull minded as ever and why did Jim ever bother bouncing ideas off him, ever act like his words or opinions were something to be valued? 

Staring at the meager page of information, pen motionless in his hand, time and the silence stretch on. He can't help the worry that slips into his thoughts. Jim had always turned to John after spending time in his own mind, had seemed to almost get so tangled in his own web at times that he needed help disengaging, be it in the form of words or a cuddle. John had been perfectly happy to be that anchor and help ground him again, had been pleased with himself for being able to know what the person he loved most needed and that he could give it.

But John is alone now, they both are aren't they? Or was Sherlock right, did Jim find someone else, someone that loved him more, someone that actually knew better than John about what to do when Jim started burning up too bright and hot? Is there _anyone_ with him? Which possibility is truly worse?

Sherlock stands suddenly from his place on the sofa, messing at his hair with a noise of frustration. “Too many possibilities! Too much data, not _enough_ data, and none of it leads anywhere useful!”

Oh thank god, John thinks. Sherlock’s hit a “talk it out” stage. There's another noise of frustration and Sherlock’s off, words coming quickly as he paces the short length of the coffee table.

“We would never have known about the benefactor. We wouldn't have, so how could Hope? Simple, the benefactor found Hope, made the first move. Hope’s record is clean though, so how?  
“Again, simple--he lives in London, or spends enough time here regularly to have noticed Hope, had to be smart enough to deduce him, see the potential and remember him for later. He had the resources to know about Hope’s family and enough connections to be convincing. Someone with those kinds of smarts and that kind of reach makes an impression on their surroundings; they can't help but leave a footprint no matter how small, yet it's one I've never seen before.  
“And if I don't recognize it, then why me? Most likely motive is that I disrupted something, but what? I haven't even had a case interesting enough to warrant that sort of attention in, oh, a year at least. Why make a game of it? It would have been far easier to off me in countless other ways, why go to that kind of trouble?”

“So someone that's local and notices people,” John reasons. “Maybe start small then, instead of big. Regardless of if they targeted you for a reason or they were just bored, that factor stays the same.”

Sherlock makes a small, thoughtful noise that gave no sign as to whether he was listening or not. No reason to not continue though, even if none of it was any good.

“Maybe he does have connections, but didn't want to use any that tied him directly to your death. Hiring an assassin can't be easy; if it had worked Hope would have been much neater.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees slowly, “Yes, his planning was meticulous, he spent months if not longer working on this. The only complication was you, throwing everything off. Won't be happy about that, I’m sure.”

John hadn't thought of that. While he’d rather not be the next target of some mysterious villain, there wasn't anything he could do about it other than keep a wary eye out. As it was he couldn't work up much of a fuss about it.

“I'll keep that in mind when I get into cabs,” he said, shrugging it off.

“Don't be ridiculous John, as if someone like that would be so boring as to repeat themselves. No, anything further will take on a very different face.”


	27. Captain Kirk is climbing a mountain, why is he climbing a mountain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey It's an even shorter update than normal after months don'tlookatme
> 
> +you might have noticed that I took down the tag regarding future pairings. Those future pairings will still happen, but won't be tagged because they're all so background or rare that it would just clutter things up for people looking for stories that featured those pairings as the main event.  
> \--If people are truly concerned about it, I can spoil one, maaaaybe two if asked.
> 
> +thanks to heshineslikeglass for beta reading and giving great advice!
> 
> +I have seen season 4 and I think I've managed to figure out how to incorporate some things, but definitely not all. Kind of cherry picking pieces, ex: Eurus exists, but she's not a bad guy and Redbeard was in fact a dog. Most of these things won't have much bearing on the story, just stuff that's thrown in here and there.
> 
> +I continue to appreciate the hell out of the comments I recieve and I'm sorry I haven't responded to them in a while, I've just been embarrassed about how slowly I've been updating. I absolutely treasure every one that you guys leave<3<3<3<3  
> \--I've seen a lot of talk floating around instructing readers "don't give negative feedback" but in a way that basically amounts to "don't give constructive criticism ever!!" And that seems...really weird to me. As long as people aren't rude, pushing for different pairings or flat out flaming me, I'm pretty okay with hearing it. I'm trying to advance my writing and that doesn't happen when people are too worried about pointing out flaws to do so.
> 
> +As always I'm sorry this took so long. I keep wanting to say that it should be faster for a while (part of why it's so short) but I also don't want to fall down on that.

Despite Sherlock’s prediction that there won't be any immediate movement from Humperdinck there's an undercurrent of expectation and in Sherlock’s case, John thinks, of hope. As days pass however and no further information about the case emerges and no new deadly plots pop up, the tension bleeds away, replaced with a sort of disappointment.  
  
John should be taking the time to sort through the few bags he brought back from his old flat. He manages to put away most of the clothes but the rest gets shoved under his new bed,  choosing to instead busy himself by becoming familiar with his new environment. In particular he gets that walk through of the kitchen that he wanted which culminates in him having to explain to Sherlock that while body parts in the fridge is fine, improper handling of biohazards is not and that if the sugar tin says sugar, then it should in fact contain sugar, not potassium cyanide.  
  
Sherlock looks at him blankly. “Well where am I supposed to keep it then? Honestly, John, be practical.”  
  
They've clearly got a long way to go.  
  
John hasn't forgotten about their bet and the movie viewing it entails either. A reminder doesn't yet seem welcome though, so in the interest of not wanting to rub it in too much or be annoyingly pushy he sets it aside to wait for the right time. That winds up backfiring however, when a new case appears on Sherlock’s radar, a mysteriously missing diamond that the detective loudly derides as being beneath him.  
     
At first, John doesn't push here either, until he abruptly realizes that Sherlock is, in fact, bored enough to investigate the missing diamond---and has no plans of including John. John becomes more than miffed and more than insistent at this, because like hell is Jim going out and doing something dangerous without him.  
  
Sherlock. Like hell is Sherlock going out without him, that's what he meant. He knows the difference.  
  
And there _is_  a difference, one that's once again made apparent when, after a short bout of eye-rolling and complaints that he doesn't need a babysitter, Sherlock not only allows John along, but even seems secretly happy about it, though admittedly that might be somewhat wishful thinking on John’s part.  
  
It's as simple as Sherlock had said it would be, even when the single missing diamond turns into several stolen diamonds and leads to a small smuggling ring. The whole thing takes less than two days, culminating in a rather sudden, violent end when a sword wielding assassin arrives, bursting into their flat without warning.  
  
It turns out that perhaps it's the assassin that should have been given a warning; between John’s military history and Sherlock’s general skills their attacker is vastly out matched and it takes a disappointingly short time for Sherlock to end the fight with a well placed punch that knocks the man unconscious.  
  
Sherlock seems smugly satisfied, picking up the sword and testing its weight. John, on the other hand, regards the assassin with a judgemental eye.  
  
“Was he even trying?”  
  
“Mmm, not particularly. They needed to send a message, make a show of it.” Smirking, Sherlock gives the sword a twirl, then points it at the unconscious man. “This will be what we send back in return.”  
  
“Um.” John blinks, uncertain. “You mean the sword or his body?”  
  
“Do I mean--” Sherlock huffs, dropping the sword’s point downward. “I mean we’re going to have him _arrested_  obviously.”  
  
“Oh.” John fumbles a bit, feeling stupid at that having been his first thought. “Oh. Yeah, obviously. Bit silly, that. I’ll just...phone the Yard?”  
  
With an exasperated eye-roll Sherlock tosses the sword at him, already pulling his own phone out. “I’ll handle it. You guard him. You clearly can't be tasked with any brainwork that doesn't involve violence. ‘The sword or his body’, honestly, John.”  
  
Mouth shut and feeling foolish, John grips the sword and does as he’s told. All in all, John winds up only having to administer one further blow to the head with the sword’s hilt before their would be killer is taken away and Sherlock details the information the police will need to apprehend the diamond smuggling ring itself.  
  
It's all quite tedious and strangely tiring, putting him in the mood to do little more than have a cuppa and surf the Internet for a bit. Despite it not even being noon yet he winds up dozing upright in the couch, tea left cooling and laptop open on his legs.  
  
He comes to with Sherlock shaking him awake. Eye half open he automatically reaches for his laptop to prevent it from falling and frowns when he finds nothing but air.  
  
“Wuzzit?”        
  
Sherlock, already dressed to go out, tosses his jacket on him.  
  
“Put that on. We have to go to the bank.”  
  
John makes no move to do so, still a bit slow from sleep. “You know, when I talked about including me in things, I didn’t mean we had to do _everything_ together. I’m sure even you can manage a trip to the bank without something terrible happening.”  
  
“Very well,” Sherlock sighs, with an exaggerated shrug. “Given your previous insistence I thought you’d be interested in investigating a break in at one of London’s top banking institutions but if you’d rather stay here and nap that’s fine with me.”  
  
“Wait, what now?” Tugging his jacket on, John casts about quickly for his shoes and curses as Sherlock flounces out the door. “Oh come on!”  
  
“Don’t trouble yourself John,” Sherlock calls back from the stairwell, “no need to put yourself out and do something interesting for once!”  
  
John curses again, trying to get his shoes on and chase after him at the same time. Because seriously, ‘for once’? As if they’d not dealt with the sword assassin only a few hours ago? Honestly.  
  
“You’re a machine,” John mutters, almost tripping into the cab Sherlock had already situated himself in while pretending not to be waiting. “A bloody puzzle solving _machine,_  you know that?”  
  
A smug upturn of Sherlock’s mouth is the only response he gets. With a huff, John closes his eyes, determined to get a bit more of “boring naptime" in.  
  
He wakes with a start to Sherlock shouting " _Captain_ _Watson_! _Report_!” directly in his ear. John swats him away, glaring. Sherlock looks entirely unapologetic.  
  
“Just checking your reflexes. We’re here.”  
  
The Shad Sanderson building is a bit intimidating, all modern business and bustle, full of well dressed men and women striding everywhere, each radiating their own self-importance. Sherlock fits right in, but as they wait in the office of one Sebastian Wilkes, John can’t help but feel terribly out of place with his old jeans and simple button up.  
  
When Wilkes arrives it’s as if he’s doing his level best to live up to every stereotype there is regarding smarmy rich businessmen. As he shakes hands with an oddly cold and to John, obviously uncomfortable Sherlock, John finds his posture going square shouldered and rigid,his hands locking together behind his back.  
  
Sherlock introduces John as his friend, and Wilkes’ surprise is nothing after all the drama with the officers at the Yard.  
  
“Friend?”  
  
John forces a smile. “And colleague. But it’s easier to be colleagues if you’re already friends, right?”  
  
Wilkes seems thrown for a moment then does a quick finger snap and points, giving a short fake laugh as if John’s made a joke. Falling back, Wilkes moves around his desk, inviting them to sit down and offering them refreshment in a way that’s obviously meant to make him seem important while somehow making it clear that they’re not actually supposed to accept. That’s fine, John doesn’t particularly want anything this guy offers them.  
  
Wilkes takes his time fluffing up and getting settled in his chair, smiling at them and Sherlock sets about making himself comfortable in his own way, managing to compliment Wilkes on doing well for himself while using an observation regarding Wilkes’ business trip activity to one up him at the same time. Wilkes recovers quickly though, with more gratingly fake laughter and pointing. John wonders idly if Wilkes was always a tosser or if his inability to be sincere is a side effect of having worked in this field for nearly a decade.  
  
For such an important, busy man he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get to business. Instead he starts addressing John instead, trying to downplay Sherlock’s deduction and going on about being at university with Sherlock.  
  
“He could look at you and tell your whole life story,” Wilkes continues, looking at John as if they’re both going to commiserate over how awful Sherlock is, which...John isn’t quite sure why Wilkes would think that, but he’s quickly getting the measure of him. Wilkes is the type that needs approval, to be part of a group. Needs to prop himself and his insecurities up by finding common ground that puts other people down. John smiles at him.  
  
“Yeah, I’ve seen it; pretty great, huh?”  
  
Like he had hoped, it makes Wilkes pause, his face freezing for a moment before he gives a small chuckle.  
  
“We sure didn’t think so, I can tell you that. Got everyone’s backs up, we all hated him.”  
  
John nods, leaning forward a bit as if understanding and makes himself seem as sympathetic as possible.  
  
“They all hated you too, then?”  
  
Beside him Sherlock is sitting very, very still as if he’s struggling not to burst into giggles. Wilkes on the other hand, has given up on his ingratiating smile.  
  
“No, it was--- _we_  all hated _h_ _im_ ,” Wilkes snaps. “People _l_ _ove_ me.”  
  
“Oh,” John says, leaning back. “My mistake, I just thought. Well. Of course they do,” he soothes.  
  
Utterly derailed, Wilkes glowers at him a moment longer, face tight, before taking a deep breath.  
  
“We’ve had a break in.”  
  
He stands and they take the cue to do the same, following him out of his person office and through the rest of the building as Wilkes starts giving them a run through of the facts. It’s all the more baffling in it’s simplicity: someone bypassed their security, took less than sixty seconds to graffiti a painting of a dead man in the aforementioned dead man’s office and snuck back out again, all without being noticed. As they walk John’s attention keeps going to the way each door requires a keycard. Wilkes tells them there weren’t any unauthorized uses, but he’s only speaking in terms of this one particular floor.  
  
Finally, Wilkes broaches the subject of payment, offering Sherlock half of the fee in advance in the form of a check. Sherlock turns his nose up at it and stalks away with a few choice words. John on the other hand, knows perfectly well that Sherlock does, in fact, need the money. He wouldn’t mind spotting Sherlock a few months rent but getting Wilkes and his company to swallow their pride and hand it over is a lot more satisfying. He makes a point of not looking at it, just folds it up and tucks it away in his wallet as if being handed presumably large sums of money is old hat between him and Sherlock. He exchanges one last fake smile with Wilkes and heads off after Sherlock, who’s making his way back to the crime scene.  
  
By the time he gets there, Sherlock is dashing about the inter-office trading area, popping up between computers and people like a particularly gangly whack-a-mole. In any other case John would think he was checking for sight lines, like a sniper, but it’s pretty unlikely that someone would be looking for a way to assassinate an already dead man. Leaving him to it, John wanders into the office itself, staring at the painting.  
  
He takes the time to snap some pictures on his phone but there’s nothing that he can glean from that. He turns his attention elsewhere, a quick walk around the room confirming that there’s nothing out of the ordinary, not that he was exactly expecting to find anything. In fact, John suspects they didn’t even come in through this floor. Instead, he eyes the door to the smoking balcony.  
  
Wilkes had mentioned offhand that the balcony was always unlocked to prevent anyone from getting stuck outside. Opening the door, he steps out and looks up, hoping he’ll be proven right and---  
  
“Yes!” He congratulates himself, gleeful. “Ha!”  
  
Above him is another balcony, close enough to be reached by jumping or climbing. For someone with the right skill set it would still be risky, but completely possible to go through the security on the floor above, drop down, markup the painting, go back out on the balcony and climb back up. Sure it’s a bit outlandish and a lot of trouble for the end result of a graffitied painting, but people have done stranger things.  
  
He’s still looking up, trying to picture the exact way the burglar would have gone about things when the door opens again and almost catches him right in the face.  
  
“Oi!”  
  
“I could hear you being wrong from all the way down the hall,” Sherlock says. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”  
  
“I can think if I want to,” John says, crossing his arms. “Beside, that noise you heard? That was me being right.”  
  
“Mmmm---no.”  
  
“It was!” John waves his hand at the balcony and gives a quick run down of his idea.  
  
Sherlock hmms again, a bit longer this time. “Still no. Points for creativity though.”  
  
“Damn it.” Sherlock moves out of the doorway so he can step back inside. “You solved it already? Was I even close?”  
  
“I’ve got the how,” Sherlock confirms as they start their way out of the building. “All I need is the why.”  
  
“But was I close?” John presses.  
  
“Eh, yes and no,” Sherlock hedges.  
  
John falls silent, trying to work out which part he got right. By the time they’re out on the sidewalk, John loses patience.  
  
“Alright. Just tell me, how was I right and how did they do it.”  
  
Stretching out one arm to hail a cab, Sherlock glances back at him.  
  
“You don’t want more time to work it out? I’m sure we’ll find more clues when we visit Van Coon.”  
  
A cab halts and John piles into it after Sherlock, confused.  
  
“When we visit who now? I thought Wilkes said the office belonged to a Sir Williams. Shouldn’t it be his family that we go talk to?”  
  
“The deceased Sir Williams has nothing to do with this. His painting just happened to be in the way of where our graffiti artist needed to leave their message.” Sherlock slips a name plate out of his pocket, showing it to John. “Eddie Van Coon, trades stocks with Hong Kong so naturally he works the night shift: perfectly placed to see it from his personal office at exactly the right time. It wasn’t vandalism but a coded message meant specifically for him. Not many Eddie Van Coons out there; I looked him up and when we get there I’m sure he can tell us what it means.”  
  
John frowns. “Why not just ask the bank for his information? Then we’d know for certain.”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “If I spoke to anyone there about it, someone might warn him. This way we catch him off guard.”  
  
True enough. Settling back, John turns it over in his mind again. The unlocked balcony is the key, he thinks, that’s got to be the part he was right about. But if they didn’t get to the balcony from above, then…  
  
“No,” John says abruptly. “No way. You can’t tell me someone climbed a sheer glass building all the way up there, sprayed some paint, then climbed back down. No way.”  
  
“That’s exactly what someone did,” Sherlock confirms.  
  
“What the--" John sputters. “That’s not possible.”  
  
“Sure of that are you?”  
  
“Of course I am! It’s _absurd_ , who would even think to do that? The time alone that it would take...just to graffiti a message then disappear? There’ve got to be better ways of threatening someone. A candle in front of their building, a horse’s head, a video telling them they’ll be dead in seven days, anything.”  
  
“Just because it’s impractical doesn’t mean they didn't do it. You’ve got to look at all the possibilities John, no matter how ‘absurd’.”  
  
“It’s more than impractical! Let’s say they did do that. Some idiot went and scaled a flat glass building fifty-something floors--"  
  
“More than fifty John,” Sherlock breaks in, as if that detail is somehow important. “Van Coon’s office is on--”  
  
“However many fucking floors, who cares! They suction cupped themselves all the way up there and no one noticed? In a building that’s _made_ _of_ _glass?_ There’s people packed into that place every hour of the night and day; if you look up from your work and see some guy outside clinging to the glass Spiderman style I can promise you that’s not exactly the sort of thing you keep to yourself.”  
  
“Spider-who?”  
  
John knocks his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. “Use the bloody context clues to infer what I mean, Sherlock.”  
  
“I must say John, you’re putting far too much stock into the observation skills of the average person, not to mention the idea that anyone there would take the time to look up, rather than stay glued to their work. An experienced climber would have a rather easy go of it.”  
  
“Sure,” John says, not opening his eyes. “Let’s just go see Van Coon and ask him about the Dastardly Suction Cup Man.”  
  
When they get there though, Van Coon doesn’t seem very inclined to so much as answer his buzzer, let alone their questions.  
  
He could be out, but as he works the night shift, It’s more likely that he’s still asleep this time of day. John says as much to Sherlock, suggesting they come back closer to the start of the man’s work hours.  
  
Sherlock dismisses it out of hand.  
  
“Sleeping? He’s just gotten a threat from an unknown source that went to a lot of trouble and broke straight through every bit of Shad Sanderson’s rather considerable security, and you think he’s up there sleeping? No, either he’s too paranoid to stay home or he’s too scared to leave. Either way, we need to get in there.”  
  
“We can’t make him answer,” John points out.  
  
“True,” Sherlock mutters, distracted, “but we can...ah. Here. Floor right above him, just moved in.”  
  
“How’s that supp--"  
  
John shuts up as Sherlock waves a hand, shushing him, and waits while Sherlock charms one of the buildings occupants over the speaker. It works, getting the two of them buzzed in but in the elevator Sherlock selects two different floors, directing John to get off at the first one.  
  
“You go to Van Coon, I’m going to the flat above it.”  
  
“How is that supposed to help?” John asks, stepping out of the elevator.  
  
Sherlock grins at him. “The balconies, John.”  
  
The doors ding shut in John’s face before he gets it, and he giggles on his way down the hall to Van Coon’s door, amused at the idea of Sherlock trying to convince some poor hapless person to let him in so he can jump off their balcony. Thankfully the hall stays clear of other residents while he waits.  
  
...and waits some more...  
  
It’s been long enough and he’s pretty sure he can hear the noises of a person moving about, so he starts knocking, in case Sherlock’s gotten caught up in something and forgotten about him.  
  
“Any day now, Sherlock,” he calls through the door. “You letting me in or what?”  
  
Just when he’s torn between being honestly worried and truly annoyed, Sherlock finally pulls the door open, his sour expression halting the complaints John had been preparing to voice.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“We’re too late.”  
  
“As in…”  
  
“As in,” Sherlock says, stalking away, “it _was_ a death threat---and it’s already been carried out.”  
  
Well fuck.


End file.
